


The Trust That You Won't Fall

by creepy_crawly



Series: Kpop BDSM Hell [1]
Category: EXO (Band), K-pop
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, BDSM, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Discipline, Dom/sub, Emotional Constipation, Impact Play, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Spanking, Subdrop, Subspace, This is the fic that never ends, What the hell is wrong with me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 08:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3404195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepy_crawly/pseuds/creepy_crawly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rope wraps tight around Minseok's wrists, and he relaxes into it. He trusts Luhan far more than he trusts himself.</p><p> </p><p>BDSM-verse AU, Xiuhan/Luseok/whatever we're calling it these days focus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will update as we go. That said, if there's something you notice in a chapter that needs a warning or you feel should be tagged, please let me know! I'll get right on that. :)

Under Chinese law, anyone ranking an 8 or higher or lower than a 2 on the Rahler-Koss scale must be licensed to use heavy instruments, because they are, or so the government believes, most at risk of doing real damage with them. Getting licensure isn't actually all that hard, save that you have to really mean it. In order to even sit the exam, you must first take an educational seminar targeted at your dynamic. While it’s tough on top of regular school, for a hard-bent sub or dom, having a chance to learn, really _learn_ what’s possible, is more than worth it; Luhan willingly gave up his early evenings for nearly a year to take the classes so that he could sit—and pass—the exams. What it means in practical life is very little, but he gets a kick out of seeing the little thrill and the light of respect in people's eyes when they look at his ID and see, next to the D of his dynamic, an RK-8.

 

Few people expect him to be a dom, and fewer still expect him to be so highly scaled. He knows he doesn't read as a high-end dominating personality, but all Chinese school children take the Rahler-Koss when they're fifteen, and so he can put a precise number on just how hard he likes to play. Luhan is sweet and gentle when he wants to be, and when he'd rather let out the claws, well...

 

He's got them, in the form of  two whips, several floggers, and enough rope to keep several ranches in business. He knows how to use paddles, canes, crops, and even blunt objects in his dynamic play. He’s got several vibrators and plugs of various shapes and sizes, all designed to tease a sub and keep them on the edge until he deems it fair to let them tip over.  And it’s not just the toys; he’s got the tools, too. His collection includes several gags, cuffs for the wrists and ankles and arms and legs, and the variety of smaller things that make bondage as fun as it is. He’s got the technical know-how, as well. He has been cautioned about and trained for bringing a sub down into deep space and then letting them hang there for hours, days, weeks, even. He also been taught how to raise them to the ceiling and let them hang there, literally, for a while.

 

When he moves to Korea—when he stops pretending he's just there for school—his toy closet does not come over. Not at first. He's high-rated, yes, but he's not an idiot. He likes his subs to know him and know what they're in for before he cuts loose. And it's hard to pick up someone who meshes with his dynamic when he's still struggling with the language. Not to mention irresponsible. Say what you will about the government of China, Luhan thinks, but you cannot deny that they have mastered the fine art of convincing high-scaled doms and low-scaled subs to be. Fucking. Careful.

 

Minseok, though...

 

Minseok has never taken the Rahler-Koss, not when Luhan first meets him. He's not overtly dynamic at all, not even when people are pushing him, which is a little strange, but not nearly so strange as the way he seems to swing between dynamic behaviours. To be fair, Minseok’s not the first person Luhan has known who does that, and it doesn’t really matter to him, not in practise. After all, Luhan’s far more concerned with Minseok’s ability to keep the ball away from him (high) than with whether or not he goes down on his knees. Their conversations involve a lot more trash talk than dirty talk.

 

For Luhan, it’s kind of a new experience, making friends with an adult who doesn’t have at least a little bit of that dynamic edge around them, even in casual conversation. Korea doesn’t follow the same social conventions around dynamic that China does, so to Minseok, Luhan is the weird one. He finds himself pulling back on some of the more dominant things he does without thinking, being conscious of the unconscious, at least a little. It’s hard--so hard; going to single-dynamic schools means Luhan hasn’t actually had to practice the social norms common in mixed gender groups while also with his friends, not for real--but also worth it, because Minseok is funny, and smart, and comfortable overlooking Luhan’s oddities.

 

Because Korea doesn’t require the RK, doesn’t use it to separate classes in school, doesn’t require people to declare their dynamic until they are eighteen (and even then, allows them to self-declare), skinship in mixed-dynamic groups here is more common than it is in China. Boys hang off of each other, run hands under shirts, over skin, cuddle up close--without worrying about being disciplined for failing to respect a sub’s space, or for threatening a dom’s control. The physical boundaries Luhan has learned since childhood are simply not there, and he finds himself being yanked into more hugs and impromptu snuggle sessions than he ever has in his life.

 

At first, Luhan found it off-putting. Though he looks sweet and kind enough, he attended the dominant school, and gossip is in China as gossip is everywhere; it didn’t take long for most of the school to know just how dominant Luhan really is. He’s gotten used to the space that doms automatically offer one another, the quiet buffer of acknowledgment. Subs read it, too, and stay out of his way unless they’re looking, or they actually need _him_ for some reason. Coming from that kind of background, the sudden closeness and utter lack of boundaries at the language school was more than a little overwhelming, though it has nothing on what he’s exposed to when he starts training at SM. Suddenly, he finds himself in constant tangles of sweaty, tired boys, dom and sub and undeclared alike, each of them holding up the rest, too tired to care about anything else.

 

It’s...nice. Once he gets over the weirdness of it.

 

On the other hand, the longer he is in Korea, the more he notices Minseok’s weirdness. Which, okay. It sounds mean to say it that way, but Minseok’s pretty comfortable calling Luhan a weirdo to his face, so the other boy can just deal with Luhan thinking it. Because Minseok is weird. He doesn’t acknowledge Luhan’s dynamic, or anyone who is open about their rank, for that matter. He doesn’t submit dynamically, doesn’t show his metaphorical throat, keeps his eyes on faces and his chin up. At the same time, he’s not out there arguing to argue or throwing his weight around; he backs down easily, plays the peacemaker. His behaviour is confusingly adynamic, because it’s not adynamic, not in the way children are. It just never goes one way or the other, not for long.

 

So, as it ends up, Luhan spends the first few months thinking that Minseok may in fact be a switch, at least until he overhears two of the other trainees gossiping.

 

"...found him hanging from his fucking closet, what a freak," one is saying. "Can't believe they let weirdos like that stay near normal people."

 

"I heard that he's not allowed doors that close until they find a dom who can control him," the other says, sniffing audibly." _Sajang-nim's_ afraid he'll fuck up his voice."

 

"Or die," the first one snorts. "Because that would look bad, a trainee dying in an autoerotic accident. So all of us subs have to go to a special class on how not to be total idiots on the one hour a day we get to ourselves. Fucking Kim Minseok."

 

Luhan's grasp of Korean may not be the strongest, but he's also completely shameless and is definitely friends with some of the managers, who are closer in age to him than a lot of the trainees. They're prone to loose lips, especially when they think he won't actually understand what they're saying, and hell, it's not like he's running around telling tales out of turn. So when he starts asking after another trainee, one he’s known to be friends with, well, the details just spill out, here, there, and everywhere.

 

It paints an ugly picture. Kim Minseok, bright, smiling, trash-talking Kim Minseok, found by his roommate, hanging from the bar in his closet. Not by his neck, thank God, but by his wrists and ankles—"and how he managed that one, I have no fucking clue--it’s not like he’s a twig like some of these kids, or half as flexible," the manager says, shaking his head and knocking back another slug of soju; Luhan thinks he might be able to tell him, but he'd need to see the bruises, and it would also require admitting that he's not as drunk as he seems, so, he holds his tongue.

 

Further forays into information gathering reveal that this is not the first time he's done something risky, either. But he's skilled enough, pretty enough, that Lee Soo Man is unwilling to cut him loose, or so it seems. So instead, as Henry reveals, the company is contracting out to a private group specialising in this sort of thing, like they already do for groups who can't quite manage everyone's dynamic in-house.

 

Luhan thinks about it, he really does. He talks it through with Yifan and his mother, both of whom call him a fucking moron, both of whom think that he is doing the right thing, both of whom tell him to talk to the people in charge. And talk he does.

 

Not a week later, he's sitting quietly in the lobby in front of the CEO's office while a representative from the local Department of Family and Child Services administers the Rahler-Koss Scalar to a very tired, very bruised Kim Minseok.

 

(Also, yes. He knows exactly how Minseok managed that little acrobatic rope feat in his closet, and, if he gets handed control, he'll paddle his ass until he can't sit for a week. You just don't do shit like that without having someone who can help you down, even if you do need to put yourself under. What the hell are they teaching in Korean schools these days?)

 

It takes several hours, but the social worker—a handsome sub wearing a slim, elegant collar that Luhan wouldn't scale below a four—eventually opens the door and ushers Minseok out of the conference room, settling him into a comfortable chair near Luhan. He goes in and speaks to the CEO, while Luhan gets a good look at Minseok. He’s more submissive than Luhan’s ever seen him before, trailing behind the social worker like a well-trained dog on a leash, pliantly letting the man put him in the chair, staying obediently still. Above it all, though, he seems tired and worn, unhappy in some distant way. When the CEO’s secretary tells them to head in, Minseok waits for Luhan to stand first, and follows him, his eyes on the floor, his hands twisting together in the pocket of his hoodie.

 

Luhan has to take a deep breath and force himself to focus on the CEO’s desk to keep from striding forward, from seizing Minseok’s shoulder, forcing him to kneel. He's not an expert—licensed or no, trained or not, there are plenty of people with more training than him—but he's almost certain that Minseok is dropping, hard. He probably didn’t get any aftercare after his disastrous closet attempt, and even Luhan knows that everyone in the company has been chewing Minseok out. It’s little wonder that now, when he’s not being allowed to fight it, when he’s being pushed to think about his dynamic, he’s starting to experience subdrop. Everything in Luhan screams to help, to do something. He has to remind himself that he _is_ helping, he _is_ doing something, even if it's completely roundabout and odd.

 

"Preliminarily," the social worker says, after everyone has greeted one another, "I would set him as a Rahler-Koss three, though, obviously, that's just an immediate result. We will run this scalar fully, and I'll be able to give you a more exact number by the end of the week. It shouldn't shift much, no more than a point in either direction." He places a hand on Minseok's shoulder. "Probably down, though. You said you have a custodial dom available? I'll need to interview that person; if they're not high enough, it will only make this worse."

 

Soo Man shoots a look at Luhan, as if to say, _this is your show, kiddo_. Minseok is looking at him, too, distantly, politely confused about his presence.

 

Luhan nods, steps forward. "Yes," he says, nodding politely, not offering to shake hands with a collared sub (his mother raised him right, thank you). "I...I proposed this solution to Lee- _sajangnim_ when I. When I heard. My name is Lu Han, and I'm a Chinese citizen, so..."

 

Minseok looks up at him suddenly, more immediately present than he has been all day. His eyes are wide.  

 

 _Good_ , Luhan thinks, glad to see he’s at least a little bit still in contact with the world.

 

"So you've been tested, good," the social worker replies. He sounds tired, but still interested. It has probably been a long day for him, closed in a small room with another sub who clearly, _clearly_ needs to be taken in hand. "Where are you scaled?"

 

Luhan smiles, a tight, uncomfortable stretch of his lips. "I was RK-8 when I was fifteen," he says. "I'm twenty, now. And trained. I probably need to be re-scaled.”

 

He pointedly does not snicker at Minseok’s half-swallowed, “the _fuck_.”

 

The social worker, on the other hand, is too well trained to let his jaw drop, but it's clearly a near thing. He coughs slightly, licks his lips. "Well," he says, sounding strangled. "Well, you are, you're likely more than prepared to take custodial care of Mr Kim. I, uh. I can re-administer the scalar for you, today, if you would like?" He flushes, looking down at his shoes. "Also, I will, um, need to see paperwork attesting to your status and licensing, if you have any. Not that I don't believe you. But."

 

Luhan nods. "Of course," he agrees.

 

Soo Man also nods. "The company has all of Luhan's licensing and testing scores on file," he says, like he hadn't called Luhan into his office the first week he had been with them, just to get a handle on this new trainee who out-scored all but two other members of the company. Like he hadn't threatened Luhan within an inch of his life if he didn't keep it buttoned and, more importantly, not scened.

 

Like he isn't trusting Luhan to keep Minseok from completely fucking up all their lives.

 

Luhan's a little disturbed at how easy it is for him, a twenty year old RK-8 on a student visa, to get custody of a newly-scored RK-3 (pending). Nonetheless, he signs and initials on the dotted lines, submits his bloodwork and copies of his paperwork and his scalar scores and his licensing exams. He leaves the room so that Minseok can do the same, can give his consent without pressure or expectation. He agrees to meet with the social worker assigned to Minseok's case. He promises to meet daily with the CEO or another member of management staff. He promises to call Heechul- _sunbaenim_ and talk to him about...things.

 

And then he is escorting Minseok to a private conference room, one hand clamped firm on his shoulder, the other clutched tight around his cellphone.

 

No sooner has the door clicked shut behind them than Luhan releases Minseok. He rolls his neck, loosens his shoulders, and leans against a wall. He leaves the path to the door clear, open, and available.

 

"So," he says quietly, watching Minseok fidget. "When's the last time you scened?"

 

Minseok flinches. "I thought everyone knew that," he snaps, not meeting Luhan's eyes. He starts pacing, sharp, fast strides.

 

Luhan huffs a laugh through his nose. "That's not scening," he says. "When's the last time someone took you down, put you in your headspace?"

 

Minseok sighs. "A year," he says. And then, without prompting, he adds, "My dad. He's my dominant parent. I was. I was in trouble."

 

"Acting out?" Luhan asks.

 

Minseok grins. He still isn't meeting Luhan's eyes. "I called him a shitfaced liar," he admits.

 

Luhan whistles. "I’m sure he didn’t like that. Even I would not say that to my mother," he says, "And I out-scale her." He slides down the wall, putting his head lower than Minseok's, thinking of his mother. Like he said before. She raised him right.

 

Minseok, though, he goes boneless. Slips down to the floor, settles on his ass. He fidgets with the lace of his tennis shoes. "He didn't," he starts, then shifts. "He just. Made me kneel. In the corner."

 

"For how long?" Luhan asks. If he's right about Minseok—if his instincts are right—just kneeling in the corner wouldn't take him down. Even if he's a three on the Rahler-Koss, that still suggests at least a little _need_ for pain to reach his headspace.

 

Minseok cringes. "Five hours," he says, quiet. "No contact. No intervention."

 

A term Luhan has learnt since coming to Korea; in China, they refer to refusing a sub food or water unless medically necessary as "denial.” The first time he had heard someone referring to a no-intervention scene, he had been very confused.

 

“Did that work?"

 

Minseok shakes his head. "Not until. Um." He flushes.

 

Luhan frowns. "Not until what?" he asks. He needs to know, needs to know what does and doesn't work for Minseok, what he's used to, what he's familiar with, how another dom has managed him without sex.

 

Minseok cringes and tucks his face in his knees, then confesses in a rush, "Not until he had my mother scatter rice and made me kneel on that for two more hours."

 

The answer hits Luhan like a blow to the ribs, taking his breath away. Something wicked and hot coils in his belly. "How far down did you go? How long?"

 

"I...I don't know," Minseok says. "I just...I came back up with my mom...washing my knees. I think I went back down? I didn't leave the house for two days."

 

Screw the social worker's initial scaling; if Kim Minseok ends up being anything higher than a 2.0, Luhan will eat his own fucking shoes.

 

"Well," Luhan says, rewarding Minseok's honesty and trust with some of his own, "as you heard in the office, I'm an 8 on the Rahler-Koss. That means I'm very dominant, with a leaning for pain and total domination. Which really means nothing for you, right now, except that I'm in a position to help you out—to help you get what you need without getting hurt. Well, badly hurt. Hurt in a way that's bad for you." He grimaces; his Korean is so clumsy. Still, he forges on.

 

"I haven't scened in over a year, sexually or otherwise. Mostly because I like to know about a person's wants and needs before taking control," he says, "but also because I don't like to scene when I can't do it as safely as possible. And let's be real, my Korean is not as good as it could be."

 

Minseok’s still not looking at him the way he usually does, eye to eye and laughingly warm, but he is focused on Luhan, as if he is quietly reassessing the way he sees him, reorganising his mind around what he’s learnt about his friend and trying to make some sort of sense out of this whole mess. Finally, he says, “Doesn’t seem to have stopped you from ragging me, any.”

 

Luhan snorts unattractively, though he’s frankly grateful to hear a hint of Minseok’s old humour. “I picked a lot of that up from a certain foul-mouthed midfielder.”

 

"It’s still better than my Chinese," Minseok mutters.

 

Luhan grins. "Plenty of time to work on that, I guarantee," he says. "Now, I don't know how you do it here, but back home, I had to get licensed to use the fun toys. I had to do school for being a dom, basically. I have been taught to drop someone for play, for fun, or because they need it. And I think you need it."

 

Minseok's hands tighten into balled fists on his pants. "You're not wrong," he says breathily.

 

"I know," Luhan says, and there's a hint of sadness in his voice. While he's glad that Minseok is admitting a need and accepting his help...well. This is not the way he was hoping to scene for the first time in such a long stretch.

 

“I have my own room," he says calmly, "because I scared my roommate a little too much. Would you like to return with me, and negotiate a scene, or would you prefer to negotiate here?"

 

Minseok's head snaps up. "You...you're the dom," he stammers. "Why—"

 

"What did you learn in school," Luhan says, suddenly angry, "that you think—" He stops himself. Minseok's pressing into the wall, flattening himself out. Jesus. No.

 

"No," he says, breathing out. "I mean, yes, I am the dom. But I'm doing this to help you, Minseok. I'm not going to do anything against your will, not unless we've discussed it from every angle first. I know how dangerous I can be, and I'm starting to think I've got a better idea than you do about how dangerous you can be."

 

Minseok blinks up at him, clearly working out how to respond to that. “So, what, you’re just going to fuck me into obedience? I’ve seen you in the showers, Luhan, and even you might have to work for that.”

 

Luhan takes a deep breath, deliberately not rising to his bait. "I am not going to have sex with you, not unless that is a necessary part of bringing you under. What I am going to do is this: I will bring you down into your headspace, and I will keep you under for as long as we have agreed upon beforehand. I will remain with you and keep you safe, secure, and well-tended. I will bring you up in a controlled, safe manner. Then we will discuss what you need from me, what I need from you, and how we are both going to keep you safe."

 

"I've never...I mean," Minseok says. He licks his lips. "Even my dad isn't that careful with me, Jesus."

 

Luhan doesn't want to know the answer to this, he doesn't, but he has to ask. "And your previous partners?"

 

"Partner," Minseok corrects. He looks away. "She was... She was a nice girl." He grimaces. "That might have been the problem, in hindsight."

 

Luhan laughs, a little against his will. "I can be a nice boy," he says, "but I also am very, very good at being very, very bad. And you—" he points at Minseok "are going to have to meet with a social worker, now that they've gotten involved. You know that, right?"

 

Minseok shrugs. "I kind of figured."

 

"Soo Man- _sajangnim_ explained that much of your system to me, at least," Luhan says. "Since we requested their assistance in having you scaled and then in negotiating a custodial contract, they'll be involved in making sure you have all the resources you need. Which, as this is your first RK scale on file, is going to include counseling. Teaching you about your dynamic."

 

"I'm twenty," Minseok says. "Don't they think I know?"

 

"You tried self-suspension in a closet," Luhan returns.

 

Minseok gives him a supremely unimpressed Look. "I _succeeded_ at self-suspension in a closet," he says. "As I said. I know about my dynamic."

 

Luhan forces himself not to laugh; no rewarding dumbshit behaviours until after they'd been punished. "Which suggests you'd done it before, which definitely says that you will be having interesting discussions about safe behaviours and outlets and things that do and do not fall under the heading of "activities which can get you sectioned"; trust me, I got the same talk when I was fifteen."

 

"Because you were required to take the RK."

 

"Because I was required to take the RK. Now. Enough avoidance. Let's talk about how I'm going to be punishing you for being dumb enough to risk your life in a dorm room closet."

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

 

“Strip and kneel,” Luhan says, closing the door behind them with a sharp snap. He leans back against it, watching Minseok scramble to obey. Minseok is not a bad sub, is not a bad boy, per se. He’s been adrift for a long time, not put under the way he wants, needs, craves, but that doesn’t mean that he’s bad. Luhan has not been put in command of him because he is in trouble and only Luhan has the dynamic to control him; Luhan has requested (and been given) control of him because Minseok is drowning and Luhan may just be the only one with the right skill set to keep him afloat.

 

As much as Luhan thinks that Korea needs to really rethink how they teach dynamic education, he will admit that Minseok’s posture—the submissive supplicant, folded delicately over his knees, his forehead pressed into the rug, hands laid out beside him, palms up—is gorgeous. His skin is pale and smooth and perfect, and his toes, where they peek out from under the round curve of his ass, are pink. The nails, he notes, have been painted pale green.

 

Slowly, deliberately, Luhan picks up the shoulderbag he had brought with him from the office. He carries it over to his bed, lets it fall to the mattress, loudly. He can see the tension twitching across Minseok’s shoulders in short bursts at the sound, and it makes him smile. Deliberately, he makes a lot of noise with the zipper, and rustles through the careful, hygienically sealed packages he had stashed within.

 

And still Minseok doesn’t break posture.

 

Luhan looks at the tools he brought, the tools that the CEO had given him, knowing that Luhan didn’t have his usual supplies, not wanting to make Minseok wait, not when just negotiating the punishment he had earned had tipped him down into his head. _That_ had made for a harrowing ride back to the dorms; Luhan had watched Minseok like a hawk the whole time, because his mother raised him right, and he’s not leaving a sub alone to drift through his own head. Especially not when that sub is Kim Minseok, who is normally loud and bright and _present_.

 

And Minseok waits for him.

 

Luhan takes a deep breath. He has warned Minseok that their session today will not be sexual. He has also warned him that he may get hard. Minseok may get hard. Only one of them will be allowed to address that, and it will not involve Minseok. He is glad that they included this warning in the earlier conversation; he hadn’t quite taken into account what seeing such perfect submission would do to him. Or just how quickly it would do it. He’s seen Minseok before, knows he’s good-looking and fit, but Luhan’s starting to think that he hasn’t actually _seen_ him, not this way.

 

Removing the mini-whip—more a plaything than what he’d prefer to use, to be certain, but beggars can’t be choosers—from its packaging, Luhan clears the rest of the mess from the bed. He lays out the whip carefully, and then turns his attention back to Minseok.

 

“Minseok,” he says, his voice deep and resonant in a way he normally takes pains to prevent. “Are you with me?”

 

“Yes, Sir,” Minseok says. He doesn’t break form, but his toes curl up, flashing minty green for a moment before he relaxes them.

 

“Good,” Luhan says, squatting down next to him. He’s not one to withhold praise when it has been earned, however, out of deference to the fact that this is punishment, he’s not going so far as to call Minseok a _good boy_. It’s hard not to, though, because he is. Minseok is being so good. Instead, he settles for reaching out and tangling his fingers in Minseok’s hair, so tight that he can feel the hummingbird flutter of blood in the blood vessels of his scalp.

 

“Now,” he says, “do you know why I am going to punish you, Kim Minseok?”

 

There is a fine flutter to his shoulder, the barest hint of movement. Minseok’s eyelids slide to half-mast, and he shivers. “Yes, Sir,” he says.

 

Luhan shakes him, very gently. “Well?”

 

“I…I took risks with my life. Unacceptable risks. I failed to ask for help when I needed it. I wasn’t honest with those who could have helped me. I showed no respect for myself or for people in my life,” Minseok says, the words gushing forth in a miserable torrent. His head would probably fall further forward, if not for Luhan’s tight grasp.

 

“That’s right,” Luhan tells him. “You made big mistakes, Minseok-ah, and so I’m going to punish you. Because good boys learn from their mistakes.”

 

Minseok makes a sound that could maybe be a sob. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and his lips are trembling, twisted in a grimace. His round face is pale, but for the flush at the tops of his cheeks.

 

Luhan releases his hair and gently strokes a hand over his neck. If Minseok were his, were _really_ his, he’d check the sit of his collar, would remind him that it was there, a promise that he would always love him. But, custodial contract or no, Minseok _isn’t_ his, and there isn’t a collar. The closest claim Luhan has on him is friendship. So instead, he lets his fingers tease across soft skin, scratching gently with his nails, just to see the way the red flushes up. He plays for a while, and then continues. “I’m going to spank you, Minseok,” he says. “As many as I think you need. You will count them out loud until I tell you to stop. And then I will whip you, four times. Once for each way you hurt yourself and those who love you. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“You are not allowed to come while you are being punished. If you think you might come, you will call for a pause. I will determine when we begin again. At no point are you permitted to touch yourself or to pleasure yourself. If you cannot do this, you will call for a pause, you will tell me, and I will put you in chastity. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“You are allowed to go down while you are being punished. That’s kind of one of the goals. If you cannot go down, or if you keep rising, you will call for a pause, or I will. We will renegotiate after a break. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“You may stop the proceedings at any point by using your stop-word. At any point, you can also call for a pause. I will not punish you for using your stop or your pause, unless you utilize your pause-word to avoid your punishment, and not because you need it. Should you use your safeword, we will stop immediately, but I will not leave you alone. I will open the door and begin aftercare. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, Sir,” Minseok almost whispers, having gotten quieter and quieter as he has replied.

 

“Recite your stop and pause words.”

 

“Red to stop, Sir. Yellow to pause, Sir.”

 

“Good boy,” Luhan says. Pushing aside the sudden, surprising urge to kiss Minseok--he’ll examine that later--he squeezes the scruff of the other man’s neck, a warning embrace. Then, releasing him, he pushes himself to his feet. He rolls out the kinks in his shoulders, shifts to loosen up his hips after squatting, and then walks to the edge of the bed. Taking a deep breath, Luhan lets himself fill every inch of his skin, until he thinks he can feel everywhere air is touching him, until every cell of his body is under his control. Only then does he breathe out, a slow, steady exhalation that leaves him centered and whole. Moving to the bed, he sits down, letting the mattress sink under his weight. It’s about to sink a lot further.

 

Minseok’s fingers flex, just slightly, where they lay on the rug. Supplication is not a very comfortable position to be in; his arms have to be aching by now.

 

Luhan takes mercy on him. “Stand up,” he says. “Come over here and lay yourself across my lap.” Propping his weight on his hands, he leans back and waits.

 

\---

 

The first strike snaps loudly in the quiet room, the smack of flesh on flesh echoing in the small space.

 

Minseok hiccups a gasp, but chokes out, "one!" even as a bright pink mark begins to flush into view.

 

Luhan doesn't give him long to feel the single strike. Quickly, he moves into the next slap, and the next, and the next. He varies where they land, and he is careful not to fall into a predictable rhythm.

 

Minseok stays with him beautifully; though his voice wobbles and shakes, and the words catch behind his teeth and tangle up in gasps and whimpers, he counts out every heavy strike. He doesn't flinch away from the unbending force of Luhan's hand, strong and cruel as any paddle, maybe more so. And even though his cock is rising to the occasion, evidence of Minseok's masochistic tendencies, he is well-behaved and keeps his hips still, which must be just as much of a punishment as the strikes themselves.

 

And still Luhan continues spanking him. He is merciless and implacable. Every strike brightens the pale moon of Minseok's ass pinker and pinker until the pink shades into red, darker and darker until his butt is flushed red and angry. When Luhan checks, Minseok's cheeks are flushed dark, too. His eyes are drifty and hollow, and his count is coming slower each and every time.

 

Minseok is floating on the edge of his deep headspace. While earlier, in the office, just talking about the punishment had started him down, the goal here is to get him all the way under.

 

"You may stop counting," Luhan says. He is surprised to hear how rough his own voice sounds; there can be no denying that having Minseok stretched across his lap is starting to have a real effect on him. He, too, is hard. Each time he slaps Minseok, the force shifts the other man across his lap, teasing his erection. His chest rises and falls rapidly, only partly from the exertion.

 

But this isn't about him, and it isn't about sex. Minseok is trusting him to do this and to do it right, to bring him safely down into that place where he can get his head sorted out. Luhan's own selfish wants and needs are not the point of this exercise. Which is not to say that the sight of Minseok sprawled across him, naked and needy, is not going to be making an appearance in Luhan's alone time. No, he rather suspects that it will be a long time before he will be able to wrap a hand around his own dick without thinking of the pretty pink flush on Minseok's round, full cheeks.

 

Without the burden of counting, Minseok is free to gasp and whimper. As he begins to fall into his own mind, he gets more and more vocal, as if the barest trappings of restraint are finally falling away. Untethered, his pretty voice is prettier than ever, wild and soft and clear.

 

And then he is going quiet, nearly silent. His gasps lengthen, deepen, until he is simply take long, low breaths in. His hands go limp, and that limp, easy lassitude spreads through him like water. He fair melts into Luhan's lap, going boneless, the tight-wound tension that has held him vibratingly on edge for so long unwinding, relaxing away, easing into nothingness.

 

This time, when Luhan checks, Minseok is completely and utterly _gone_. His pupils are blown, his eyes dark and dazed. He is rubbing his cheek slowly, almost imperceptibly slowly, against Luhan's knee, a great, naked cat. His lips are parted, dark and swollen from the way he had been worrying at them earlier, but now they are relaxed. His tongue darts out, vibrant pink, wets them shamelessly.

 

He is close, so close to where Luhan wants him, but not quite there. Luhan pauses for a moment, lets Minseok drift long enough to start wondering if the spanking is done, if it is now time for the whip. But just as he starts to shift, Luhan explodes. Anchoring Minseok carefully with a strong arm, he uses all the strength in the other to spank Minseok's ass, fast, furious, and fiery hard.

 

As the red darkens and darkens, edging towards purple at the edges—Minseok is not going to be sitting comfortably for a long, long time—Minseok starts giggling. And then he is laughing, bright, loud rolls of laughter.

 

Luhan stops spanking, starts gently stroking the dark, hot flesh of the other man's ass. It's nearly burning to the touch, nearly painful for Luhan. It must hurt Minseok like hell. If he's feeling any pain at all right now.

 

Luhan's fairly certain he's not.

 

Minseok smears his giggles into Luhan's thigh as the other man reaches down and takes hold of his jaw, turning his face.

 

Luhan smiles. "Are you with me, Minseokkie?" he asks, his voice deliberately calm. It’s a harder thing to do than he expects; he has to swallow back the rough edge that keeps wanting to creep forward.

 

He gets laughter, now edging into hysterical, in response.

 

That's what makes up his mind. Leaning back on his elbows, Luhan orders Minseok off his lap. "Go stand against the wall," he says. "Hands over your neck, face against the wall."

 

It takes him a moment, a clumsy moment, but Minseok slides off Luhan's lap. He makes his way to the wall, and there's an enticing roll to his hips, one which only draws attention to the hot glow of his ass. He hasn’t even begun to bruise yet--and he will, Luhan knows that the rich red will give way to dark and angry marks, and a wicked part of him is looking forward to it--but already, the color of Luhan’s hands on him is gracing the palest part of his beautiful body. He walks loose-limbed and free, so fully tucked into his own head that he has given control of his body over to Luhan and what he wants.

 

Luhan stands up slowly, and he can't stop himself from pressing the heel of his palm into his aching cock. Taking the miniwhip from the bed, he uncurls the leather braid, wrapping his fingers around the wrapped handle and getting a good feel for it.

 

He cracks it in the air, once, twice. It is designed to crack like a signal whip, loud and easy, but it swings like a bullwhip. It is small enough that he can use it to full effect in this small dorm room, but sacrifices little of its power.

 

Minseok's laughter is now fully hysterical, hiccupping and wild. Luhan curses himself for having waited so long; this is why he likes long negotiations and full discussions. At this level of play, it is dangerous to learn new things about your partner in the middle of a scene. Still, hiccups are a normal part of playing with new people, and it’s not like Minseok’s in danger. Luhan’s a little startled, to be sure, but there’s every chance that, once he comes back to himself, Minseok will be just as startled. At least they will both be prepared for next time.

 

Content now with the feel and the flick of the whip in his hand, Luhan strides forward. He strokes careful hands down Minseok's back, then squeezes his shoulders tightly, grounding him.

 

"I will give your four strikes with the whip," Luhan says, reminding him of their earlier plan. “After each, you will apologise.”  He pauses, trailing just the tips of his fingertips across the unmarked skin of Minseok’s spine. It’s not going to stay that way for long. He’s looking forward to striping it red and dark, looking forward to painting forgiveness across the other man’s skin in sweet, stinging counts. “Do you understand?” he asks, finally.

 

“Yessir,” Minseok slurs between sharp, breathless barks of laughter, clearly pulling himself together to reply, then relaxing as his responsibility is fulfilled. His fingers tighten on the back of his neck, once, twice, and then settle, tension slowly leeching from his body as he visibly gives himself over into the other man’s hands. It’s a beautiful, heady sight, that total trust.

 

Luhan lays the first stripe down, smooth and easy, in a diagonal. It stretches from Minseok’s right shoulder to his left hip, a streak of brilliant white against the pale skin of his back.

 

“I’m sorry!” Minseok says, his laughter becoming more breathless gasps than anything. He hiccups in another rush of air, his fingers clenching against his skin for a brief second before he exhales, a shuddering tremble of breath and body.

 

Luhan cracks the whip again before the first mark he left even has a chance to pinken up. He lays the second stripe just above the first, leaving about two inches between the two marks.

 

Minseok cries out. “I’m sorry!” he gasps. He hiccups and lets out a noise that sounds an awful lot like a sob. And then, then, _finally_ , he lets out an actual sob.

 

Feeling the sound hit him in the gut, Luhan lays out another stripe. He doesn’t wait, just draws this one two inches below his first hit. Minseok is letting go, letting the last of his barriers fall and trusting himself, whole and entire, into Luhan’s grasp. He’s not going to let that trust go to waste. The whip flicks hard and sharp, and the cry it wrenches from Minseok’s lips nearly drowns out the crack of the whip’s tail meeting soft flesh.

 

He apologises in a rush between shuddering cries, whimpering out, “I’m sorry, Sir, I’m sorry,” even as his fingers flex on his neck. He is crying for real, now, with the same hysteric intensity that he was laughing with earlier, the same heavy rush of tangled emotions struggling through him, seeking any out they can find. His shoulders jump and shake wildly, his chest heaving his entire body as he sobs.

 

And Luhan lets fly with the final blow. It cuts diagonally across all of the earlier ones, running from Minseok’s left shoulder to his right hip. It lights up, a brilliant white, amidst the hectic pink and violent red of the earlier blows. It’s not as even as Luhan might have wanted, true, but with his canvas shaking and shuddering, well. It’s still a work of art.

 

Minseok _screams_ , the sound high and bright and clear. His body shakes and writhes, his head thrashing into the wall, but he keeps his hands up where Luhan told him to put them, and he doesn’t come. “I’m sorry,” he wails, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so, sorry, Sir.” His knees go liquid and weak, and he wants to fall, but he _doesn’t_ , because he’s a _good boy_ , he _is_ , he _will be_.

 

And then he is wailing out his sorrow and his frustration and his anger (at himself, at the company, at the world) into a soft, warm shoulder. Luhan is unbearably careful with him, wrapping one arm high around his shoulders, the other slung low about his hips, not pressing into the burning whip-marks at all but still _there_ , warm and alive and _there_. His heart is beating fast but steady, and Minseok can feel it against his own, marking time just as smoothly as the slow shushing Luhan is pressing into his sweaty hair.

 

“I’ve got you,” Luhan says, “shh, shh, I’ve got you. Let it all out. There you go. That’s it. Good boy.” And he pets the back of Minseok’s neck, fingers lingering over the place where he would buckle on a collar, warm and heavy. He coos to Minseok and then starts placing delicate, butterfly-wing kisses into his hair, amid the muss and the tangle and the sweat. “Good boy, good boy, good boy—you were so good. I’m so proud of you.”

 

And whatever was left of the floodgate within Minseok collapses. He bawls into Luhan’s neck, worrying at the tee-shirt the other man is still wearing with his fingers, unsure of when his arms went around him, uncaring. He is floating and free and the only thing holding him down, his only tether, is Luhan. His arms, his voice, his _trust_.

 

“Shh, baby,” Luhan coos again, pressing him closer. “Hang on to me, okay? Good boy. Here we go.” He stoops and lifts, and then he is carrying Minseok. It’s not an effortless move; Luhan has to cantilever himself at an odd angle to offset the weight of the other man, and his arms strain against the weight. But that makes it all the more precious, all the more important.

 

He carries Minseok over to the bed and sits down, more than a little grateful as he eases the still-crying sub down between his knees. As much as he wants to put him on his lap—and he does, his first instinct in this situation has always been to cuddle—he knows that Minseok’s ass has to hurt something hellacious, even if he’s not really aware of it right now. That lack of awareness helped him carrying him the five seconds it took to get across the room, but, really, he needs to spread some lotion on that.

 

There’s just one flaw in that plan: Minseok shows no signs of letting him go. He tries, just once, to ease around where Minseok is huddled between his legs, now crying into his thigh, but that earns him such a look of heartbreak and abandonment that he finds himself sliding to the floor and wrapping himself around the other man like an octopus, so. That’s a no-go.

 

In the end, Luhan just waits until Minseok’s frantic crying has tapered into slow, cyclical whimpers and breaths of sound, the tail end of a crying jag that doesn’t want to let go but has left nothing to sustain itself. He combs through Minseok’s hair with one hand, curling a long strand around his finger, and then carefully strokes down his arms. “Baby, are you with me?” he asks.

 

Minseok starts to shake his head, then nods, the motion small and frightened.

 

Luhan sets that response against what he has seen and what he has learnt about Minseok. The sub is alert, for a given value of alert. He’s responsive and seems to have control of his own body, and he’s able to give at least a semi-coherent answer when asked a question. That doesn’t mean he’s all checked back in, though, Luhan knows. That initial headshake was telling, as is the rhythmic way Minseok is kneading his fingers into his thigh, and the drifting dark of his wide, pretty eyes.

 

He might not be _gone_ , Luhan decides, but he’s certainly not _home_.

 

Making up his mind, Luhan smiles. “Then let’s get you on the bed, hmm? Much comfier than this floor!” He watches, silent, as Minseok slowly lifts his head, lets his gaze drift to the bed, and then back to Luhan. Seeing that Minseok is either unable or unwilling to make the first move, Luhan bites back a smile—his friend looks like nothing so much as a very confused rabbit right now—and kneels up. He hooks one arm under Minseok’s legs, and coaxes him into wrapping his arms tightly around his neck, so that the arm he puts around his back will bear the minimum amount of weight; he doesn’t want to jar those whip marks before he can treat them.

 

And then he stands. It’s hard, but he manages it, even if Minseok falls back into his arm harder than he would have liked, setting off a fresh burst of tears, though no sound. He takes the one step forward and then lowers Minseok to the bed, shifting him as he does so to try and not hurt him further.

 

Minseok just sighs and eases onto his stomach as Luhan puts him on the bed. He goes liquid and limp, sweetly pliable. He turns his head, looks at Luhan through hazy eyes, and smiles.

 

Luhan, watching him, shakes his head in amazement. “Aaaaand you’re under again, aren’t you?” he says, more to himself than anything.

 

On the bed, Minseok hmms a questioning sound. He looks confused, like he’s trying to draw himself back together.

 

“No, no,” Luhan soothes. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Go back down.” He seconds this encouragement with soft, kittenish pet to Minseok’s sweaty, mussed hair.

 

That’s all it takes for Minseok to settle once more. He turns his head slowly against the coverlet, just rubbing his cheek on the soft cotton, while his fingers clutch at the fabric in tight bunches. He kicks once, twice with his toes. He blinks at Luhan, and his pupils are blown, huge and dark, so that his eyes are very nearly black pits in his face.

 

It’s an amazing gift, one Luhan’s not sure he’s fully earned. He’s glad that he secreted his care kit under the bed—hell, he’s glad he put one together after the first meeting with Soo Man-sajangnim—but this way he doesn’t have to even try to leave Minseok. Instead, he can luxuriate in the distant, drifting expression his sub is wearing, and make sure that the tears are all good tears.

 

And they are, even as he squeezes the specially-formulated cooling aloe onto a cotton batt and starts smoothing it over the slowly-purpling marks his spanking left on Minseok’s ass. He paints a thin coat of the bluish-green gel over the skin which is still hot to the touch, keeping a careful eye on how Minseok responds to his ministrations. He’s settling again, his crying subsiding into whimpers and whines, bouncing with the occasional hiccup.

 

Luhan throws away the blue-stained cotton and brings out another tube, this one of a different type of aloe, minus the menthol. Using another cotton batt, he starts smearing the clear goo across the violently red marks he has left on Minseok’s back. This, he knows, must sting—and, true enough, tension bolts across Minseok’s muscles before easing back to limp lassitude. Still, Luhan is diligent in covering his skin. Later tonight, perhaps even in the morning, he will help him massage moisturizer in, to keep his skin soft and supple. For now, however, he’s just working to quell the burn.

 

The punishment is over. The worst of the suffering should be, too.

 

\---

 

After Luhan wipes the excess aloe from Minseok’s skin, he tugs the coverlet out from underneath him and carefully rolls the other man under the blanket. He slides in next to him, twining his arms around Minseok and cuddling him close.

 

Minseok is nude, stripped bare on Luhan’s earlier command. Luhan is still wearing a soft cotton tee shirt and sweatpants, though he’s toed out of his socks, finally. The blanket is jersey, soft and worn. Luhan throws one leg over Minseok’s legs, tangling them together. Though he is careful to not press hard, he does spread his hands wide over the other man’s still-warmed skin, letting the heat seep through his fingers, reminding the both of them that the punishment is over, and now is all about feeling better.

 

Luhan opens his arms a little wider as the other man cuddles closer, like a kitten seeking warmth. Sleepily, he nuzzles in close against Luhan’s throat, his nose startlingly cold, while his fingers crawl across his belly. Luhan tries to hold still while he gets settled, but, inevitably, Luhan’s movements to get comfortable afterward set off another round of movement in Minseok. It takes a while, but they do eventually settle together.

 

Minseok sighs into Luhan’s shoulder, his eyelids fluttering. Snuggling against the other man’s warm bulk, kitten-like and sweet, he hums quietly to himself. His hands work aimlessly in the soft cotton of Luhan’s tee-shirt.

 

Luhan smiles at him, his chin hooking over the top of Minseok’s head. All of that soft, feathery hair tickles gently on the underside of his jaw. He can feel Minseok breathing, both in the steady rise and fall where they are pressed chest-to-chest and in the warm breaths that ease across the hollow of his throat. It’s not a bad feeling, not at all. He thinks that he could probably get used to it, even, the sensation of Minseok melting into him so sweetly.

 

God, Luhan wonders, what has he gotten himself into?


	3. Chapter Three

When he wakes up from their nap, Luhan rapidly becomes aware of two things: one, that Minseok is very clearly part octopus, or perhaps even actually a were-octopus, and two, that he needs to pee. _Really badly_.

 

His initial efforts at shifting Minseok bear no fruit. In fact, they’re so unsuccessful as to really be negatively successful; the wiggling and nudging actually encourages Minseok to cling tighter and tangle closer. He’s all legs and arms and Luhan’s starting to wonder if he didn’t maybe sprout tentacles at some time in the last few hours because, wow, Minseok’s a lot stronger than he looks. He’s also really good at rolling with all the wiggling Luhan throws at him; he somehow gets a leg over Luhan’s skinny hips and an arm around his chest and his chin pressed into his clavicles. He’s got the other leg in between Luhan’s, so that they’re riding each other’s hips, and one hand clings to the edge of the mattress, the arm in question thrust under the pillow they’re sharing.

 

Which is endearing, but does nothing for the fact that Luhan really, _really_ needs to piss. It’s rapidly reaching emergency proportions, and while he knows people who are into that sort of thing, he’s not one of them. He tries to pry Minseok’s arm away, thinking that he can just slide out from his legs, but even that’s a no-go. Instead, sighing, Luhan gently strokes a hand along Minseok’s jawline—he’ll need to shave soon—and scritches behind his ear.

 

“Hey, Minseokie,” he says. “Minseokie. Wake up, baby, I need to get up.”

 

Minseok whines and opens his eyes slowly, still hazy and drifting. Seeing Luhan so close, practically nose-to-nose with him, he smiles sleepily. His eyes start closing again, and he purrs, wriggling even closer.

 

“Ugh,” Luhan groans, because, that’s really cute, impossibly cute, but he _needs to pee_. Gentle but unrefusable, he forces Minseok to release him and shimmies out of the bed quickly, before the other man can suck him back in. He’s stopped, however, by a hand reaching out and snagging the hem of his shirt.

 

Minseok hums an inquisitive plea at him, wide-eyed and soft-faced.

 

Taking a good long look at him and absently wondering when, exactly, spoken language is going to make it back into Minseok’s brain, Luhan groans low in his throat and, while shifting from foot to foot, carefully tugs Minseok’s hand loose from his shirt. Instead, he weaves their fingers together and pulls gently. “Come on, then,” he says. “Bathroom, then food.”

 

Not letting go of his hand, Minseok scrambles out of bed. He falls to his knees right as he gets out from under the blanket and leans into Luhan’s leg. He nuzzles into the curve of the other man’s pelvis, uncaring that he’s hard, dick rising awkwardly beneath his soft sweatpants.

 

Luhan smiles and released Minseok’s hand, instead reaching to stroke through his hair. It’s a mess; sleeping on a shared pillow was obviously not in his hair care plan. “Come on,” he says, gently tugging on Minseok’s forelock. “I need to pee.”

 

\---

 

Dinner ends up being a quick affair; there’s not that much in the apartment to start with, because someone (Zitao) is going through the eat-everything stage of puberty, and they try not to leave too much temptation in the cabinets and fridge. There is bread of questionable freshness, but no moldiness, and peanut butter, so Luhan smacks together two quick sandwiches.

 

Minseok doesn’t dare sit down—his ass is mostly red, but the purple is becoming more and more predominant. Sitting down is something he’s not going to even be thinking about doing for a while, and sitting down painlessly is going to take even longer. Even though Luhan had him put on a pair of oversized sleep-pants, he’s shirtless, out of deference to the fresh coat of aloe cooling the whipmarks on his back. He intends to wear them boldly, proudly, because he likes being tamed and controlled, likes knowing that other people can just look at him and know that he belongs to another person, to Luhan. Still, proper care is important, and these marks aren’t good pain, aren’t a reward. They are punishment, and so he is not going to resist letting go of the sting and burn.

 

He ends up kneeling at Luhan’s feet while the dom sits comfortably in one of the kitchen chairs. It’s not a bad place to be; he rests his head on Luhan’s knee and lets the other man pet and coddle him. Though they hadn’t outlined the particulars of what would happen after the scene, just that Minseok comes up slow and prefers to snuggle, he should have known that Luhan would be so sweet to him. After all, everything he knows of the other man says that he is kind and caring, sometimes to a fault, and attentive in all the right ways. So even without having had specifics to look to, Minseok thinks that this is okay. Maybe better than okay.

 

Attentive and loving, Luhan tears bits off of the sandwiches for him, handing him little pieces of bread and peanut butter. Minseok accepts them with an open mouth, sometimes taking in Luhan’s fingers, too. And even though Luhan gently thumps the side of his face with two fingers every time he does it, it’s worth it. He likes the taste of his dom, his _friend_.

 

Luhan also offers Minseok sips of Gatorade, the same purple flavor he’s seen the other man drink before when they’ve played soccer outside on hot days. It’s hard to handfeed someone something to drink, and harder still when the drink in question is in a bottle with such a wide mouth. Inevitably, there a drips and dribbles, and the sugary sweet liquid leaves shining purple trails down Minseok’s mouth, throat, and chest.

 

Grinning, Luhan leans down to wipe a finger up the sticky trails before they can dry and become _really_ sticky. He offers his damp finger to Minseok, who still hasn’t lifted his hands off his lap.

 

Minseok sticks his tongue out and licks delicately at Luhan’s finger, and then sucks it into his mouth, getting it fully clean.

 

Of course, that’s when Zitao walks in.

 

\---

 

The dorm agreement had been no scening in public places, so of course Yifan gets involved. Somehow that pulls Yixing in, too, and Luhan thinks that it’s probably a good thing Minseok doesn’t actually speak Mandarin. He’d likely be horribly embarrassed, otherwise. He’s been rising slowly out of subspace since shortly after Zitao walked in, probably from the presence of more people and the fact that that splits Luhan’s attention away from him.

 

Luhan does keep enough of the force of his attention on Minseok to keep him from coming up too quickly, though. Frustrated at his dormmates he may be, but he’s no fool, nor is he irresponsible. He has no intentions of leaving Minseok hanging or drifting, not when that’s how Minseok got in this position in the first place. Instead, he excuses both himself and the sub now shifting at his feet to his room, reminding Yifan that they can continue this debate later.

 

He takes his time redressing Minseok. He likes doing this; it feels almost like he is armoring his sub against the world waiting outside.  At his direction, Minseok steps into his underwear, his pants, raises his arms for his shirt. Luhan even makes him sit on the edge of his bed so that he can put on his socks, gently squeezing Minseok’s ankles.

 

He would kiss them, he thinks, if he dared. If it wouldn’t make it all too clear that he made a mistake, that he can’t do this platonically, that he’s already tumbling headfirst down that slope. If Minseok were his, really _his_ , not just his to keep him from running into the ground.

 

He’s glad that they have the room to themselves as he walks Minseok to the door; if Yixing or Yifan saw his face right now, they would see right through all his protestations. They would know his lies for what they are. Even Zitao might, if he saw him squatting in front of Minseok and tying on his shoes.

 

“Call me if you need me,” Luhan says, whispering the words into Minseok’s ear as he hugs him tightly. “No matter how small the need, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

Minseok watches him, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I promise. Thank you.”

 

Luhan can’t resist, not in the face of Minseok’s sweet response. Leaning in, he presses a gentle, chaste kiss to the corner of his jaw, just below his ear. “Thank _you_ ,” he says.

 

The pink flush that takes Minseok’s cheeks is beautiful.

 

\---

 

The actual, accurate results for their Rahler-Koss scalars arrive late Tuesday evening. They’re delivered to the CEO by a courier. Lee Soo Man calls them into his office early on Wednesday.

 

“I need to know that this will work if I keep you together,” he says, waving the envelopes.

 

Luhan and Minseok exchange a look.

 

“For my part,” Luhan says, nervous, “I think that I can keep working with Minseok, regardless of what’s in those envelopes, or what we do behind closed doors.”

 

Minseok nods. “I feel more comfortable with Luhan,” he says, “which isn’t to say that nothing will ever change. But I think that, even if it did, we can still work together well. We work well now.”

 

Soo Man looks between them, then sighs. “Alright,” he says. “Very well. Your results, gentlemen.” He hands them each an envelope. “Luhan. We’re going to need to discuss legal ramifications of your new score. Both of you, we’re going to need to discuss how we’re going to keep your status—and the custodial contract—private after your debut.”

 

Luhan looks up from the envelope he’s holding, but hasn’t opened. “After…debut?”

 

Soo Man treats him to a small, tight smile. “Yes, well. I’ll be laying out a few more of those details at the meeting at, oh,” he checks his desk calendar, “noon. So don’t be late.”

 

\---

 

There are twelve of them in the practice room, most shifting nervously as they wait for the CEO to arrive. Luhan and Minseok, sworn to secrecy, are helping one another to keep their muscles loose after the quick run-through they’ve just finished. Zitao is practicing Korean with Yifan and Jongdae (Jongdae’s being more honest with him than Yifan, but that’s likely because Jongdae’s also paying more attention. Yifan gets a little…drifty sometimes.) Sehun is picking a fight with Jongin about whether his foot should face in or out on this one particular motion, and Junmyeon looks to be about a half-second away from stepping in and breaking up what promises to be a riot. Chanyeol and Baekhyun are giggling about something; it’s probably better not to ask, because it’s usually better not to ask where those two are involved. Kyungsoo is leaning against the wall, muttering to himself, and Yixing is trying, once again, to get the right flow in his hips.

 

Soo Man- _sajangnim_ arrives on the scene like a bolt of lightning, suddenly in the doorway, arms folded across his chest.

 

They all still. It would be funny, Luhan thinks, except for the part where they’re all going so still out of sheer terror. Even him and Minseok; he can read it in the sub’s tense shoulders where he sits in front of him.

 

“Gentlemen,” Soo Man- _sajangnim_ says, “I have an update for you.”

 

\---

 

Zitao’s practically liquid in Minseok’s lap, sprawled across him like a puppy. He’s been there since they were told that, as a new group headed towards debut, they need to be honest and open with one another about their dynamics and their leanings. Minseok, seeing the oncoming freak-out, had reached forward and snagged the young sub by the back of his pants and just pulled him into a tight embrace.

 

Luhan smiles softly, watching them. Minseok’s hands are in an endless flow of motion, toying with Zitao’s fingers, petting through his hair.  He’s making a good show of being totally at ease with situation, even though he has to know that they all know about what left the bruises on his wrists.

 

(At least they think they know, Luhan reminds himself. Because night before last, he’d covered the bruises Minseok had given himself with bruises all his own. He’s a jealous dom, he knows that. He also knows that the thought of Minseok binding himself up in suspension in his closet is enough to stop his heart, so he’ll do whatever it takes to keep him out of there and remembering who will help him out.)

 

“I’m a dom,” Jongdae says easily, leaning back on his hands. “But I’m only just barely an RK-6, so, I’m pretty chill. I’m easy-going outside of scenes, so if we’re not having sex, you don’t really need to think about my dynamic.” He pauses, grinning around at them. “But, I mean, if you need to be dropped, let me know. I can always direct you to someone more toppy than me.”

 

There’s a ripple of quiet laughter. Jongdae has always been incredibly patient in practice and lessons, so it comes as no surprise to any of them that he identifies in the middle of the spectrum. While that kind of quiet rolling with the punches sometimes hides some serious deviance, Jongdae is just too open and transparent.

 

Junmyeon, though…

 

He rubs the back of his neck. “I…I’m a switch,” he says, not looking up at any of them. “I did the Rahler-Koss and everything. I’m a 5, well, technically a 5.5, but. Yeah.”

 

“But you’re our leader,” someone says.

 

Junmyeon’s lips tighten. “Yes, I’m your leader. I trust that none of you will let my dynamic get in the way of how we work as a group. I already know that I will not let it.”

 

For a moment, the room is quiet. Then Yifan dives right in, shifting obviously to draw attention. “I’m a dom,” he says. “And I was still in Canada when I was fifteen, so, I don’t actually know my RK score. Not that it’s really important, in the end. I’m pretty dominant in scenes, and I read as dom in regular life. The end.” He turns, looks to the person to his left. “Your turn.”

 

Chanyeol’s lip curls. “I’ve never taken the RK, either,” he says, “but I’m a sub, so.” He shrugs. “Not very subby, but you’ll probably find me on my knees from time to time. It’s relaxing.”

 

Next to him, Baekhyun nods. “I’m an RK-6.8,” he says. “So pretty obviously, a dom. I don’t push, much, though. Not unless you ask for it.”

 

Zitao is next in the row, and Minseok has to prod him up from his lap, though he keeps stroking his neck. “‘M a sub,” Zitao mumbles, not looking up from where his hands are twisting together in his lap. “An RK-3. I like being good and I’m kind of snuggly with everyone, no matter what. Just. Know that.”

 

Yifan bites back a grin. “I think we can live with that,” he says. He turns his eyes to Minseok. “Next?”

 

Minseok cringes. This is not a discussion he’s been looking forward to having. “I, uh. Yeah. Well, I’m an RK-2.0, just got my scores this morning. And, uh. You’ve probably all heard about when.” He waves a hand, flashing dark bruises. “So I’m just going to say that I play hard and live pretty hard, too, but I’ve got someone watching out for that—for me—so don’t worry about that.”

 

By the time he finishes, his cheeks are flaming red, but he keeps his chin up. It makes Luhan smile, seeing him be so brave and assured. He leans forward, tangles his pinky loosely with Minseok’s.

 

“I’m Chinese,” he says, getting the eyes in the room back on him and not on their hands. “So I took the RK when I was 15, and I was an 8.4 at that point. I got retested, though, and like Minseok, just got my scores back.” He bites his lip, then charges ahead. “I’m a 9.6 dominant.”

 

\---

 

Yifan meets Junmyeon’s eyes across the table, though the way his forefinger is twisted, spinning the ring on his thumb, gives away how nervous he must actually be. “So,” he says.

 

“So,” Junmyeon agrees. Despite himself, he’s a little amused to see how nervous the man across from him is. The standard social script says that Junmyeon should be the nervous one, that Yifan should be dictating terms, coolly confident in his own dominance. Then again, the standard social script says that Yifan should be the leader of their whole group and that Junmyeon just can’t make up his mind or is afraid to come out of some closet.

 

Junmyeon hasn’t been one to put much stock in the standard social scripts for a while now.

 

He takes a deep breath. “So,” he repeats, “I know that you are going to be the leader for M, while they are in China. But while you are here in Korea…” He is planning to say, _we can trade it off as we need to_ , or _you will still be M’s leader, just as I will be K’s_.

 

But Yifan beats him to words. “While we are in Korea, you will be the leader,” he says, simple as that. “Of EXO. We are one, right?”

 

Junmyeon smiles, helpless, amused to hear their group’s brandphrase already tripping from the other man’s mouth. “We are one,” he says.

 

Yifan smiles back, the corners of his lips a little twisted. “One hot mess, maybe. Do you think they mean to split us the way they did?”

 

“As a dom group and a sub group?” Junmyeon asks. “I hope not. Aren’t we supposed to be as adynamic as possible in public, anyway?”

 

“Like Ken dolls,” Yifan says, nodding. “How long do you think it will be before someone works it out?”

 

Junmyeon shakes his head. “Oh, no. I’m not starting on that kind of betting. If I start betting on when they’re going to figure out our dynamics, I have to stop frowning at Sehun every time he tries to start a pool on what’s going on between Baekhyun and Chanyeol.”

 

“So there is something going on there?”

 

“I don’t know,” Junmyeon says, “and, frankly? I don’t want to know. But speaking of dynamics. You’ve got some, uh...heavy hitters. Do you have a plan for handling that?”

 

Yifan squints at him, trying to decide if the other man made the play on words intentionally or not. He’s pretty sure, based on the beatific smile, that Junmyeon won’t tell him if he asks. He has his suspicions, though; no one is as sweetly confident as Junmyeon without being a little devious under the surface. “I’m not really worried,” he says finally. “Luhan is smart, and well-trained, to boot. He knows very well what the risks of getting in over his head--or Minseok’s--are. And Minseok trusts him, just as much as Luhan trusts Minseok. It’s a surprisingly good pairing, for a custodial.”

 

Junmyeon nods. “And Zitao?”

 

“He...he’s well-trained, too,” Yifan says, stumbling a little on the reply. “He went to an Imperial Academy. And he’s more service oriented, according to Minseok. He won’t...he won’t go out and try for some hurting.”

 

“Hmm,” is all Junmyeon says, but he seems to accept Yifan’s analysis of his group. “We should probably head for the next meeting.”

 

Yifan stands up with a groan, fishing his phone out of his pocket as he does so.

 

Walking behind him, Junmyeon tries to pretend that he doesn’t see Yifan setting up a playdate via text.

 

\---

 

“You know,” Chanyeol says, watching Baekhyun slowly shimmy out of his too-tight pants, pale thighs coming into view, “I never would have guessed. Your orientation, I mean.”

 

Baekhyun makes a face. “I knew what you meant,” he says, short. He doesn’t look at Chanyeol, focusing instead on folding his pants. “Does that change anything? Now that you know?”

 

What he doesn’t ask is whether Chanyeol is like him, queer. Because maybe Chanyeol isn’t. Maybe Chanyeol likes to be dommed. Maybe Chanyeol just likes being kinky. Maybe Baekhyun’s just his weird experimental phase. Asking means finding out, and Baekhyun doesn’t want to know. Not yet.

 

Chanyeol shrugs, a little uncomfortable. “I mean...no? Not unless you want it to?” The mattress creaks as he shifts a bit. “Do you want it to?”

 

Finally, Baekhyun looks at him--not face-to-face, but over his shoulder, in the mirror. He watches the way Chanyeol looks at him, looks away, looks back at him, back at his hands. Clearly, this is not a conversation either one of them wants to be having.

 

Baekhyun shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable in the tense atmosphere of their small shared room. “No?” he asks.

 

“No, you don’t want it to change?” Chanyeol presses. “‘Cause, dom or not, I’m...I’m not getting on my knees just ‘cause you tell me to.”

 

“I wouldn’t ask that!” Baekhyun erupts.  “You know I wouldn’t do that,” he continues. “Have I yet?”

 

“But we agreed no orders before we...before we found out,” Chanyeol says, mulish. “You agreed before you knew I was a sub.” He folds his arms across his chest.

 

Baekhyun huffs angrily. “Chanyeol, if I agreed that we’d have no orders, why do you think I would change my mind after we all talk dynamics?”

 

“Because now you know I’m a sub!”

 

“I don’t _care_!” Baekhyun yells. “What we have has nothing to do with dynamics, Chanyeol!”

 

Chanyeol growls and punches a pillow. “We don’t _have_ anything, Baekhyun.”

 

Baekhyun stares at him, hands on his hips. “Fine,” he says, sharp and short. “What we do, then. It doesn’t change anything, alright? I don’t give a flying fuck about your dynamic or my dynamic or anything like that. I like what we do, okay? I like the way we do it.”

 

Chanyeol sighs, wilting. “Fine,” he says. “Fine. We keep doing what we do.”

 

“Fine,” Baekhyun agrees. He tries to tell himself that it’s not a weak sound.

 

But it is.

 

\---

 

“They think I’m going to kill them,” Luhan whines, hefting one of Minseok’s bags over his shoulder. “Did you see their faces, Yiyi?”

 

Yixing grunts, picking up Jongdae’s suitcase. “Lulu, I think they’re more worried about you killing Minseok- _ge_ ,” he says. “After all, he’s the one you’re scening with—ouch! Alright, alright.”

 

Luhan scowls at him, completely unrepentant about having kicked him in the ankle. “I’m serious.”

 

Sighing, Yixing grimaces. “It’s going to get better, _gege_ ,” is all he says.

 

Somehow, Luhan can’t bring himself to believe that the other boy might be right. Not when most of the group side-eyes him, still, even nearly a month after they learned his score. And he’s seen the looks they think they’re hiding, the days when Minseok comes in yawning and bruised, or still drawn and quiet from the night before.

 

Yixing sets down another heavy bag. He turns, faces Luhan, gives him a serious look. “ _Gege_ ,” he says calmly, “it will all work out. They give Minseok and Zitao funny looks, too. They’re just not used to people as dynamic as you lot. Not who admit it.”

 

Luhan hopes he’s right. He thinks he’ll just _die_ if this ends up being the rest of his time in EXO.

 

\---

 

They do seem to adjust, somewhat. Maybe it helps that Minseok gets more open about his wants and his needs. Maybe it helps that Luhan treats these requests with dignity and respect.

 

Maybe it’s just that Minseok seems to _thrive_ under Luhan’s attentions.

 

After all, they’d all seen Minseok before his so-called “incident,” and now they are seeing him after Luhan has taken him in hand. He’s like a completely different person, now, so much more secure and happy, full of life and laughter. He snuggles into Luhan’s side, sure, but he also teases him viciously about his baby-sweet looks. And Luhan dresses him in sweatpants and tee-shirts and thin strips of jersey in place of the collar he cannot wear, keeps him grounded, gives him a place to go and reason to go there.

 

Maybe it’s just that they can all see the way the two men look at each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note:
> 
> Lovely, patient readers, I am so sorry.
> 
> When I first began posting this, I honestly thought I'd be putting up about a chapter a week, week and a half until we'd cleared through the backlog that I had built up. Unfortunately, towards the beginning of March, the realities of my job (software development release cycles for the win!) caught up with me. The final betaing process that BunBun28 and I use involves both of us being in the document at one time, her commenting, me changing, until a chapter feels complete and clean. This method is, unfortunately, pretty time-intensive and requires both of us being awake and functional at the same time. This past month, that has not been much of a thing. Thus, the more-than-a-month that has passed between chapters two and three being posted.
> 
> Again, I apologise. I will endeavour to keep future updates closer together and, barring that, to be more transparent about the delays.
> 
> I am sorry, and thank you for your patience!


	4. Chapter Four

Zitao watches the bubbles rising in the water, stirring the grains of rice in steady whirls. He’s tired, so tired; training for debut is, somehow, even harder than trying to get noticed so that he can debut. Despite that, he’s been making a point of getting up earlier than he has to every morning, early enough that only Kyungsoo is there to greet him. More than once, they have greeted the sunrise from the wrong side entirely, both of them standing in the kitchen, blinking sleepily at the stove.

Kyungsoo is the only person Zitao has met since moving to South Korea who makes rice in a pot. In fact, he suspects that Kyungsoo may be the only person he has met who knows how to make rice in a pot. And that’s a blessing, really, because the apartment that all twelve of the boys are sharing has only one rice cooker, and as any mother can tell you, there is literally no way to feed even two teenage boys on a single rice cooker, even a family-sized one. 

So every morning, Kyungsoo wakes early, starting rice on the stove. Zitao usually shuffles in not much later, and Kyungsoo generally leaves him to make rice in the rice cooker while he takes a shower. When Kyungsoo returns, hair damp against his head, he starts on the rest of breakfast, directing Zitao to hand him this or that out of the fridge or cabinets. As they get to know each other better, Kyungsoo passes more and more of breakfast off to the young sub, until Kyungsoo, laughing, tells Zitao that he trusts him to “keep M fed.”

“Are you sleeping in front of breakfast again?” Kyungsoo asks, his tone warm despite the steady stillness of his face.

Startled, Zitao jumps a little, whipping around to face the short dominant. “Hyung!” he says, raising a hand to his chest. “You scared me!”

Kyungsoo laughs quietly, nudging him gently out of the way so that he can get back to the stove. “You need caffeine, Tao-yah,” he says. “Go pour yourself a cup of tea.”

This is one of the things that Zitao likes best about Kyungsoo. He’s dominant, but casually so. He tosses around orders and directions evenly, to everyone in the group, even Luhan, but he never makes a big deal out of it. It just...happens. If his directions go unobeyed, well, it tends to earn the ignorer a dark look and a snide comment. This behaviour has earned him the title “sasshole” from Minseok and Zitao’s undying adoration. 

Okay. Zitao’s adoration comes less from Kyungsoo’s dry humor and quick wit and more from what comes after those casual orders are obeyed. Because as unfocused as Kyungsoo’s instructions might be, the way someone responds never goes unnoticed. He is quick with his thanks, with acknowledgment, with recognition. And to a submissive person like Zitao, it feels wonderful.

It’s not like Luhan and Minseok, with their obvious devotion and heady obsession with one another. No, if Luhan’s dominance is the overwhelming burn of a forest fire, then Kyungsoo’s is the steady warm glow of a lamp. Zitao knows that the emotions are different, too, because Kyungsoo doesn’t take to subs the way most dominants do, any more than he takes to doms. Which works out just fine, frankly, because Zitao’s eyes have already been caught by someone else, and caught hard, and not everything has to revolve around sex, anyway. 

(Zitao’s not actually sure where Baekhyun and Chanyeol find the energy for sex, right now, though, to be fair, they both seem to be all the more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for it. Luhan says it’s disgusting. Zitao alternates between agreeing with that and thinking it’s cute.)

“Mm, thank you,” Kyungsoo murmurs, unthinkingly taking the mug that Zitao offers him. He lays a soft hand on the back of Zitao’s neck, warm and heavy. He sips slowly, his big eyes drifting shut as he drifts in the warmth of caffeine and tea, letting it wake him up. After a while, he sets aside the mug and turns his attention back to breakfast. Still, he keeps a hand on Zitao’s back, gently rubbing light circles as he works.

\---

Minseok wakes slowly, his body warm and heavy with sleep. He can feel a hand--Luhan’s, he knows--on his back, just above the curve of his ass, just below the start of the knot chain that makes his rope harness. Luhan’s knee rests against his thigh, and the other man’s breath stirs the fine hairs at the back of Minseok’s neck.

He wakes up just slowly enough that it takes a few moments to register that he can also feel the wonderful friction as he grinds his hips into the mattress.

As soon as that registers--that he is lying on Luhan’s bed, tangled in Luhan’s sheets, humping the bed--Minseok groans and buries his face in the pillow. He wonders if he can, perhaps, suffocate himself in it.

Luhan laughs gently, a ripple of sound and air across Minseok’s neck. His fingers tickle against Minseok’s lower back, nails just scratching his skin. “Sounds like you need it,” he teases, his voice rough and slow with sleep. “It’s been a while, yeah?”

Still not pulling his face from the pillow, Minseok nods. There’s no point in lying to Luhan. They’ve been sharing a bed; Luhan knows he’s not masturbating at night, nor in the showers they share. And Luhan’s standing firm by this whole “custodial, not sexual” thing, which, frankly, is a little frustrating. Minseok grumbles into the pillow.

Luhan laughs again, still gentle, surprisingly kind for someone who can be so wonderfully cruel. “Tell you what,” he says, yanking on the knot that binds Minseok’s upper arms against his back. He instead loops the newly-loosened rope through the cuffs he’s wound around Minseok’s wrists, tugging carefully until the sub’s wrists are pressed together, back of hand to back of hand. He ties another knot, this one fast and steady, and then presses the trailing end into Minseok’s hand.

“I’ll give you fifteen minutes,” Luhan continues, stretching out as he stands up from the bed. “You can do whatever you want with them, including untying yourself, but when I come back in, that’s the end of it, and we’ll start the day, okay?”

Minseok nods, his cheeks red, his fingers clenched tight around the end of the rope.

“Minseok,” Luhan cautions.

Minseok swallows. Right. Verbal confirmation. “Yes, Sir,” he mumbles, the words slurred into the pillow but clear enough. “Fifteen minutes. Up to me.”

“Up to you, indeed,” Luhan snorts. There’s a creak from the springs as he leans over, presses a kiss between Minseok’s shoulder blades, and then a whine as he stands up. His feet are not silent on the floor, and he says, “fifteen minutes,” again as the door creaks open, and then he is gone, and the door is snapped shut.

\---

“You’re out and about early,” Kyungsoo observes, watching Luhan emerge from the room he shares with Minseok. “I was going to say up early, but that seems a little too on point…” A smirk curls his lips as he lets his eyes linger on Luhan’s crotch for just a moment.

Luhan makes a face at him, manfully resisting the urge to either press a hand against his cock or kick Kyungsoo’s smirk off his face. “Do you need any help with breakfast?” he grits out, instead, because he needs to get his mind off of the fact that Minseok is on the other side of the wall, probably getting himself off, potentially with a hand around his cock after having untied himself from the knots Luhan bound him up in, but far more likely by humping the mattress--Luhan’s mattress--until he comes, still tangled up in the rope Luhan wove around him the night before.

Kyungsoo can probably read his desperation for a change of topic, if the way his face softens is any indication. “Unfortunately, no,” he says. “Zitao was very handy this morning. He’s getting quite good, actually.” He smiles, just a little.

When he smiles, Luhan thinks, Kyungsoo is startlingly attractive. Or maybe it’s just the pride in his face, the look of a dominant reflecting on just how well a submissive under his hand has performed. 

“You know,” he finds himself saying, “TaoTao would...he wouldn’t say no, if you offered. You’d have to offer, though.”

Kyungsoo blinks at him, wide-eyed, startled, then shakes his head quickly. “No, no,” he says, and in his voice, there’s a strange tinge of...sadness? Loss? “I don’t...no. Zitao’s got his heart set on Yifan; any fool with eyes can see that.”

“So, everyone but Yifan?” Luhan asks, tucking away Kyungsoo’s quick denial for later perusal.

“And potentially Zitao, yeah,” Kyungsoo agrees, the sadness gone from his voice, but the brightness of his smile strangely dimmed. “A right pair, those two. A right pair.”

\---

“Izzatbreafess?” Baekhyun mumbles, pressing his face into Chanyeol’s shoulder.

Chanyeol grumbles something, twisting away from the tickling feel of the other man’s lips against his naked skin, but sleep is not returning. Baekhyun has stolen the blankets again. This should not surprise Chanyeol, really, because Baekhyun has stolen the blankets every time they have slept in the same bed, and at least once that they were sharing the same stretch of floor. But Baekhyun’s blanket thievery does not make greeting the morning any more pleasant than it usually is.

“Fuck,” Chanyeol grumps, twisting to untangle his legs from what part of the sheets Baekhyun has left him. He twists a little too far on the small bed, and his morning gets immeasurably better as he half-falls to the floor.

Baekhyun makes an odd sound and sits up. Rubbing a hand across his eyes, he frowns down at Chanyeol. He blinks. “Yeollie.”

“What?” Chanyeol asks, sharper than he means to. His elbow hurts like hell; he landed on it pretty hard.

“The hell are you doing on the floor?”

Chanyeol throws the pillow that came down with him at his face.

\---

“Hyungs are so gross,” Sehun grumbles, shoving Zitao away from the mirror as he stumbles into the bathroom.

Dark-eyed, still hazy from sleep, Zitao makes a distant noise of confusion. He pouts at Sehun, clearly not happy about the current distribution of mirror real estate.

Sehun ignores this, continuing his complaining as he locates his toothbrush. “I mean. Junmyeon-hyung sent me to make sure Baekhyun and Chanyeol are awake. And, like, functioning. I guess. He said to make sure they were alive.” He puts toothpaste on the toothbrush, squishing it out of the tube with far more aggression than is necessary. Predictably, this results in a huge glob of toothpaste. Sehun glowers at it.

Wordless, Zitao thrusts out his own toothbrush, only recently rescued from its own little cup.

Sehun scrapes some of the minty goop from his brush onto Zitao’s. Turning on the sink to wet his brush, he picks up his theme again. “But, whatever, I’m a wonderful maknae and a far better human being than any one of our hyungs deserves to know.” Thrusting the toothbrush into his mouth, Sehun blithely ignores the choking sound Zitao is making.

“Are they alive?” Zitao asks, waiting patiently for Sehun to move so that he can get at the sink. If the two older boys had somehow died in the night, he’s fairly certain that Sehun would have led with that, but it’s before six o’clock in the morning, so honestly, he’s not really sure. 

Sehun spits in the sink, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, they’re alive,” he grits out.

Zitao raises an eyebrow. That’s an uncharacteristic amount of anger, especially from Sehun. Sehun doesn’t get mad, not from what Zitao knows of him. He gets bratty, sure, and sarcastic, and frequently even. But not mad. “Ah?”

“They’re alive,” Sehun repeats. He watches Zitao start to brush his teeth, following his motion in the mirror. “I walked in on them.”

“Fucking?” Zitao squawks, almost choking on toothpaste foam.

“Ha!” Sehun barks. “That would have been an improvement!” He stomps a foot, sticks his toothbrush back in his mouth, scrubs hard. After another few seconds, he spits again. “No,” he continues, a little more calmly than before. “They weren’t fucking,” he explains. “Blowjob. Incredibly sloppy.”

Zitao waits. There has to be more to it than this.

There is. Sehun suddenly shudders, cringing. “Baekhyun was drooling on the floor it was so gross you don’t even understand.”

It’s going to put him at the top of Sehun’s rather alarming shitlist, and Zitao doesn’t even care. He laughs, loudly.

Sehun’s eyes narrow, his early morning gimlet glare fixing on his traitorous friend. “I know you aren’t laughing--” he starts.

He’s cut off by a sudden knock on the bathroom door. “Didi,” Yixing calls, quiet. “Breakfast is ready. Have you see Sehun?”

“He’s in here,” Zitao calls back, waving a hand at the confused look Sehun is giving him. “I’ll tell him.”

“Thanks,” Yixing says. “Don’t be too much longer, yeah?”

Zitao listens to his footsteps headed down the hall, back towards the kitchen. “Breakfast,” he tells Sehun. He rinses his toothbrush, then puts it back in its cup. When Sehun opens the door and heads into the hall, Zitao follows him.

The closer they get to the kitchen, the more awake the world seems. It’s louder there, the tiny space jammed full of people, and all the lights are on. It’s warm, too, both from the sheer number of people and from the effort Kyungsoo has put into preparing food for them all. The smell of coffee fills the air, rich and dark, and Junmyeon’s pouring tea into a line of mugs. 

“Ugh,” Sehun says, the complaint quiet, just under his breath, so that Zitao is the only one who can hear it. “Hyungs are so gross.”

Zitao follows his gaze, and sees what is bothering his friend so much. Minseok is stirring something in a mug, but he’s not looking at what his hands are doing. He only has eyes for Luhan, who is leaning into him, murmuring something in his ear. Behind them, just over their shoulders, the rising sun is painting the tops of the buildings a rosy-hued gold.

It’s domestic and sweet and Zitao has to tear his eyes away from Yifan’s long-limbed, sleepy shuffle into the kitchen. He treats Sehun to a tight, fast smile. “Go,” he says. “Sit. I should help out.” And, not waiting for a response, he pushes into the crowd, weaving through to find Kyungsoo near the stove and offer what help he can.

\---

Minseok leans heavily against Luhan’s leg, absentmindedly thrusting rice into his mouth. He and Yifan are the only ones who need coffee to function in the mornings, though he thinks he’s starting to convert Luhan. Zitao started coffee for them this morning, and while it’s not the gourmet espresso he dreams of, it’s not actually bad, either.

Luhan combs long fingers through Minseok’s hair, watching him slowly wake up as food and caffeine hit his system. Minseok, he has come to learn, is slow to get moving in the mornings, even moreso now that all twelve of them are sharing a single apartment. It makes morning a good time to observe him in his natural habitat, then, or so he figures. So he’s started a new breakfast time habit: watching Minseok. And this morning does not disappoint; Minseok is in thinking mode, eyes steady on his objective, brain undoubtedly running behind them. He wonders what conversation they will end up having, once Minseok has collected his thoughts, because Luhan knows what Minseok’s sleepy eyes are focusing on this morning, and it’s not on him or on the plate in front of him. His fingers steadily threading through Minseok’s soft hair, Luhan slurps at the mocha Minseok mixed up for him and watches him watch Zitao.

Zitao is not kneeling on the floor, the way Minseok is, but he’s no less obviously submissive. He has helped serve breakfast to everyone, and then settled into a distant chair, at the corner of the table, just out of reach of its surface. He keeps his eyes down as he eats, except for the way he looks up at Yifan whenever he thinks the others aren’t looking.

This, Luhan thinks, is going to be one hell of a show.

\---

Junmyeon groans, looking at the paperwork spread out in front of him. He’s going to be here, in this room, forever. He knows it.

Across the table from him, Yifan snorts a quiet laugh. He’s looking more than a little frazzled, too, even as he slouches back in his chair, spinning a pen around his hand. He’s also got paperwork spread out before him, and Junmyeon knows that at least half the heap of paper is to deal with what the company has started calling “the Tao Situation.”

The Tao Situation, as Junmyeon understands it, works like this. Normally, companies will do everything in their power to avoid addressing an idol’s dynamic. Leaving it ambiguous makes it easier to market to a wider audience, and it keeps them from trapping anyone into a particular image that they may want to change later. It also prevents a lot of scandals from happening; single-dynamic groups are far rarer than anyone likes to pretend. 

But Zitao throws a wrench in the normal workings, because Zitao isn’t just obviously a sub. He’s obviously a trained sub, and from China’s Imperial Academies, at that. The line of rings up his ears and the (admittedly tiny) tattoo at the base of his wrist are as obvious as a billboard to anyone who knows about the Academy system. And while Zitao is willing to let them cover the tattoo, he has flat refused to remove the earrings. Not that he should, to be honest; there are enough photos of him out there with the earrings that removing them will be far more newsworthy than having an Imperial Academy submissive in an idol group.

Since there’s no hiding what Zitao is, obviously, they are going to have to go ahead and admit it. And SM is an entertainment company, so they’re not going to “admit” anything; they’re going to get out ahead of it and spin the story the way they will. But coming out about one of them means they need to decide what they plan to do about all eleven other members.

Junmyeon has already decided that Suho will be ambiguous, and Kyungsoo has expressed an utter disinterest in what people think of his dynamic. Yixing and Jongdae and Minseok are all taking bets on how long it will take for people to realise just how hard a dom Luhan actually is; in return, Luhan is playing as sweet and gentle in public as he thinks he can get away with, already. 

Yifan also has to worry about what it’s going to look like, when M starts promoting more in China. Having an Imperially-trained sub in the group is one thing. Having an Imperially-trained sub without a submissive companion and some dominant person as his guardian? That’s another mess all together. For rather obvious reasons, no one wants to get on the bad side of an institution that not only survived thousands of years of dynasties, but which somehow made it through the Cultural Revolution completely unscathed, Imperial name and all. 

“I honestly don’t see why it matters,” Junmyeon says finally, dropping his head to the paper-cluttered surface of the table. “Whatever we say, the fans will make up their own minds, and that will be that. There are photos of Kibum literally wrapping a collar around Jjong’s throat, and people still insist he’s a sweet little submissive pet!”

Yifan snickers. “To be fair, he loves it.”

“To be fair,” Junmyeon returns, not lifting his head from the table, “he’s a troll. He gets off on teasing people.”

Yifan gives him a long, searching look. He bites his lip, clearly thinking about what he’s about to ask. The tips of his ear stain red as he looks at Junmyeon. Finally, he just comes out and says it. “You’ve totally had sex with him, haven’t you.”

That gets Junmyeon to look up. He sneers at Yifan for a moment, and then shrugs. “Hell, yes.” He laughs at the startled look on Yifan’s face. “Shouldn’t ask if you don’t want details,” he says, and grins.

\---

Watching Zitao suffer the untender attentions of the dance instructor is probably not everything Sehun has ever wanted or needed in life, but it’s pretty far up there, and he is willing to admit that. Especially as, right now, Zitao’s suffering means that Sehun’s existence is being ignored. Normally, he’d hate this state of affairs, but he’s spent the better part of the last five hours going through the same three and a half minutes of choreography. He’s okay with being ignored right now.

Even the sight of Minseok melting under Luhan’s massaging fingers isn’t enough to bother him at the moment. Sehun’s still tempted to whine at them or throw something, though, just because there’s no need for them to go about thinking that being gross and cute is allowed. It’s not. Oh Sehun does not have the patience for that kind of thing, thank you very much.

He also doesn’t have the energy to pick up his arms, either, so they’re getting a reprieve. But only a brief one. Instead, Sehun rolls his head back the other way so that he can watch the torture continuing.

Zitao comes stumbling towards him, his normally graceful movements made clumsy by overworked muscles and sheer exhaustion. He doesn’t speak, still panting for breath, as he falls to the floor beside his friend. He grins his thanks as Sehun nudges a water bottle towards him.

Sehun ignores Zitao as the other boy struggles to get his breathing back under control while also drinking his body weight in water. His attention is on Yifan and Jongdae and Jongin, who have taken over the center of the room while their choreographer barks orders. It’s a fairly fascinating show; that Yifan can’t dance is simply a fact of nature, like gravity, and that Jongin can is just the same. Putting them in the same small space and expecting them to complete the same routine merely highlights the disparity between the two. The choreographer’s look of existential despair adds a certain je ne sais quoi to the whole affair.

He feels more than sees Zitao moving up beside him, his breathing slowed and now calmly sipping from the water bottle as they both stare out at the dancers. Sehun says nothing, just bumps his shoulder against Zitao’s to acknowledge his presence. 

As they continue to watch the scene before them, though, Sehun finds his eyes drifting. He can see where Zitao’s staring, because it looks like Sehun’s not the only one who can’t focus. And, really, who can blame him for watching Zitao watch Yifan? The wide eyes, the half-parted lips--frankly, Sehun’s impressed at how well Zitao plays the part of the sad little sub. Only, the more he sees it? The less he thinks Zitao is playing.

\---

Luhan gathers up the long, plain rope that he threw in the wash earlier in the week. It is soft in his hands, just the right degree of flexible and kind. He owns other ropes, ropes which have been pre-prepared, but they are harsher, with less bend and far more bite. When it comes to Minseok, he finds himself reaching for gentler materials. He doesn’t want Minseok to think of the ropes on his skin as a punishment for failing to keep still, or as a sign of his being owned; these ropes are for support, for care, to remind him that Luhan is there for him, even when he is not physically there.

His experienced hands whip through getting the knots put in the rope, marking out the centre and endpoints easily enough. He doesn’t bother to curl the rope into a tidy loop, the way he normally would—well-cared for tools last longer, stay stronger, and work better—choosing instead to fold it back and forth in his hands, ready to use the instant he re-enters the bathroom.

It is the work of seconds to cross the hall from the room he shares with Minseok to the bathroom where said sub is waiting for him. Luhan opens the door, slithering through quickly before closing it with a snap. He doesn’t notice if anyone is in the hall to see anything, however, because he only has eyes for Minseok.

Minseok is right where he left him, still kneeling on the tile floor of the shower. Water from his shower is still beaded on his skin, and he visibly holds back a twitch as a drop finally gives in to gravity and slides down the pale, bruised skin of his shoulder blade.

Luhan has to fight back the urge to lick the water from his skin before it can complete its journey. His hands tightening on the rope, he reminds himself that that is not what Minseok agreed to, not what they discussed. And it won’t be good for Minseok, not at this point, anyway. As the ostensibly responsible party, as the one who’s definitely in a better place, dynamic-wise, at the moment, Luhan knows he has to hold himself to the same rigorously high standards his mother instilled.

That doesn’t mean Luhan doesn’t want.

It does, however, mean that he’s not going to act on that want. So, steeling himself, he unfolds the rope from its tight bundle, letting it unfold completely before winding it back in on itself to create a useable length.

“Kneel up,” he orders. He is a little startled at how steady his voice sounds.

Minseok does as told, his spine straightening as he pulls himself upright, as if someone were   
pulling him up by a string at the base of his skull. He keeps his eyes down, though, his gaze fixed somewhere between his own knees and Luhan’s toes.

Luhan reaches out, rests a hand atop Minseok’s wet hair. “You were so good today,” he says, calm and quiet. “I’m really proud of you.”

Minseok sighs, his shoulders sagging as the tension he’s wrapped around himself lets go. As Luhan’s hands begin the familiar routine of tracing out where the ropes will lay against his skin, turning him this way and that as he lays surprisingly-soft cotton down in neat and tidy lines, Minseok feels his mind start to drift. He takes a slow, steady breath, filling his lungs with the humid air of the bathroom, and consciously disengages. 

The next time Luhan steps close, to tie the central knot at the back of his diamond harness, Minseok doesn’t think, just lays his head against the other man’s thigh and relaxes.

\---

After a long day’s worth of dancing and dealing with the eleven other people who are supposed to become his brothers, Zitao collapses at the foot of Sehun’s bed with a pitiful whine. The pathetic picture he makes doesn’t earn a lick of sympathy from his friend, however, which he guesses shouldn’t really surprise him. Sehun is the farthest thing from the stereotypical image of the sympathetic, tender submissive; he’s snide and sarcastic and more likely to laugh at your suffering than to care. It’s one of the reasons he’s come to be friends with Sehun, actually, because Zitao has always had a thing for people who will snark with him.

And snark Sehun will--occasionally even at Zitao himself.

“You’re kinda gross,” Sehun comments, kicking Zitao’s shoulder. 

Zitao swats at his foot. “You’re a dick,” he says. 

“Accurate,” Sehun agrees. He rolls upright, tossing a pillow down near Zitao, and then wriggles his way down with it. Tossing an arm across his friend’s chest, he settles the pillow into position, half on Zitao’s shoulder, half against the wall. “That’s why you love me.”

Zitao just growls and awkwardly swats at Sehun’s face. “I hate you,” he whines. “You’re mean.”

That makes Sehun snort. “And you’re pathetic, Tao-yah.” Despite the cruelty of his words, his tone is gentle and warm, and he digs his fingers into the hair at the back of his friend’s head and scratches softly at his scalp. “Why am I even your friend?”

Zitao pulls him closer, nestling his head next to Sehun’s on the pillow. “You rely on my fabulousness, Sehunnie.” He tosses a leg over Sehun’s. “It gets you through the day.”

“Nah, that’s Jongdae’s ass,” Sehun says, grinning lasciviously. “That flexing in front me? Gets me through the day and well into the night.” He winks at Zitao.

Zitao giggles at this, turning his head to muffle the sound in Sehun’s neck. “Like he could keep up with you.” 

Sehun wrinkles his nose. “Eh, maybe. I mean. He’s nice, but not too nice, you know?” He takes a moment to think about Jongdae, a slight smirk curling his lips. The silence hangs for a bit, and then Sehun uses one bony knee to nudge Zitao’s thigh. “So tell me about Kyungsoo.”

Zitao can feel his cheeks pinking brightly. “He…” he starts, but his voice tapers off. He sighs, turning a little, getting more comfortable in Sehun’s arms. Finally, he continues. “He’s. He’s not nice? But it’s nice.”

Sehun rolls his eyes. “Do you like him?”

Zitao scowls. “Weren’t you just calling me pathetic and gross about someone else?”

The other sub’s shrug jolts both of them. “I mean, not like you can’t be gross and pathetic about two people at once, Tao-yah. Hell, knowing you, you could be gross about a lot more people all at once.”

“I hate you so much,” Zitao says, snuggling close. His jaw cracks as he yawns.

“You wish,” Sehun shoots back, the words garbled through a yawn of his own. He lays one hand on top of one of Tao’s, letting their fingers tangle together.

It doesn’t take long for them to fall asleep, a curled pile of arms and legs and sheer exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> orz
> 
> I am so sorry! Unnie decided that there were pacing issues, and then it took us for-blippity-ever to get our acts together enough for a whole new chapter to be written and polished! Please enjoy despite delays!!!


	5. Chapter Five

One of these days, Kyungsoo muses, Junmyeon’s going to snap. Either he’s going to break down crying or, more likely, he’s going to pop Sehun right across that smart mouth. And while no one who’s ever been stuck in a small, humid practise room with an over-tired Sehun would ever blame him for the latter option, it probably is not the best foot to get the whole member-leader relationship started on.

He watches, silent, as Junmyeon opens his mouth to snap back at Sehun, clearly so frustrated with the boy’s whining that it’s starting to hurt. But their leader is their leader for a reason, it seems, because no sooner has he inhaled sharply than he closes his mouth, lips thin and tight. He closes his eyes, forefinger pressed tight to his thumb, pulling himself back under control in an enviable show of self awareness. 

“I,” Junmyeon says, tight and breathy, “am going to take a walk. Sehun, you have however long it takes me to get around three floors and back to get your shit together and pretend like you have finally achieved what you’ve been working for.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just whirls on his heel and leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him, so gentle that it’s clear he’s being deliberately careful. Kyungsoo feels the power of that restraint shiver down his spine. Obviously, he’s not the only one, either. Minseok is leaning, wide-eyed, against Luhan, who is absent-mindedly stroking the fine hairs of his neck, an analyzing look on his face as he continues to stare at the door Junmyeon vanished through. Zitao’s lips are parted, his cheeks oddly bright, and Kyungsoo expects he’d be on his knees in a second, given the word. 

And it looks like someone else has noticed this, as well. Yifan’s eyes dart between the door and his group’s maknae, eyes bright in his pale face. “Okay,” the other man says, sudden enough that there’s a brief flinch around the room. Yifan’s lips quirk. “Okay,” he repeats. “Sehun, why don’t you take five, get a --”

Sehun, however, doesn’t wait to hear what Yifan is about to suggest he get. With an odd, frustrated little snarl, he storms through the door. He is not careful about closing it behind him, and slams it so hard that the clipboard beside it on the wall shivers noisily.

Luhan’s eyes are tense, and Kyungsoo can see the offer on his tongue, just as easily as he can see the worry lighting Zitao’s gentle movements. Jongdae and Yixing are eyeing the door too, but neither of them know Sehun very well. Which, in hindsight, is probably why Kyungsoo makes the offer, first. 

“I’ll go after him,” he hears himself saying, a little surprised at the words that are leaving his mouth. “After Sehun. I’ll get him settled,” he adds, realising even as he speaks just how right this plan is.

Yifan nods, the gratefulness barely hidden in the motion. “Yeah. We’ll...we’ll take a few, in here, then get back to work. Rejoin us when you’re...when he’s ready.”

Kyungsoo nods to him, then darts out the door.

\---

It’s not hard to find Sehun, actually, and it probably wouldn’t be hard, even if Kyungsoo hadn’t been living with him for months now. All he has to do is follow the squeak of pacing tennis shoes and the sound of furious, if muffled, muttering.

Sure enough, Sehun’s pacing in a nearby corner, one of those odd spots that come from the basements having been refinished a few too many times by a few too many different people. He’s got one hand in his mouth, chewing on the meat of his palm, muttering snide repetitions of everything Junmyeon’s said to him in the past few days into his own skin. He doesn’t seem to actually be doing any damage to himself, not that he usually does when he’s in these moods. He usually doesn’t let himself get the chance to get that far.

And, really, that’s what decides it for Kyungsoo. He takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders to loosen them, then strides forward, interrupting Sehun’s next turn.

The maknae’s hand drops from his mouth. “Hyung,” he bites out. “What now?”

Kyungsoo just gives him a look. “Don’t be rude, Sehunnie. When’s the last time you visited the noona?”

Sehun growls. “None of your fucking business, that’s what. Why? Here to be telling me that I’m not grateful enough? Think I need to put in another, what, five years so that I appreciate this as much as hyung does?” For good measure, his hand goes back in his mouth, this time so he can chew on a knuckle. He huffs around it, his chest heaving like he’s been running the hundred-metre dash, leaning forward into Kyungsoo’s space. 

Kyungsoo ignores that with the implacable calm he uses on assholes who refuse to believe someone his size can be a dom. “Hand out of your mouth, Sehun.”

Unthinking, Sehun tugs his finger away from his face, tucking it away in his fist. Then, as if realising what he’s just done, he sneers at Kyungsoo. “What, you going to try and put me in my place, hyung? Gonna put this naughty boy on his knees? Is that why you won’t go for Tao, hmm? He too nice for you?” As if trying to add injury (his own) to the insults, he sticks his finger back between those too-perfect top teeth, the crooked bottoms hidden by his pout.

“Hand, Sehun,” Kyungsoo repeats, this time with an edge of ‘don’t even think about fucking with me, boy’ in his voice. He knows what Sehun’s doing. Hell, blind men in the Andes probably know what Sehun’s doing, because he’s bratting like a damp kitten backed into a corner. “Or are you going to make me take it out of your mouth for you?”

There. An out, if Sehun needs one. If he wants one. Kyungsoo locks eyes with Sehun, keeps them there, so that the younger man can see his offer.

Sehun is silent for a long, long second. Then, his eyes narrow, he sinks his teeth into the joint of his finger, hard and most certainly painfully. “Make me, _dom_ ,” he spits around his mouthful.

Kyungsoo nods, once. He knows Sehun pretty well at this point, knows that he isn’t a masochist, doesn’t hurt himself for fun so much as to self-soothe. He’s also not as readily obedient as Zitao, or even as Minseok is, in his own way. But that’s not a problem; it just means that Sehun has to be handled differently from the others. Kyungsoo can do that. “On your knees,” he says.

Sehun’s lip curls, a delicate sneer. “Make. Me,” he repeats.

Kyungsoo steps forward, until he is so close to Sehun that he can feel the other boy’s breath on his face. He reaches out, unerringly finding a nipple, and twists, _hard_. Then, still calm, he looks Sehun dead in the eye, and orders, “on your knees.”

He’s not sure who’s more surprised when Sehun actually sinks to his knees, himself or the younger man. With the way Sehun was bratting about, Kyungsoo has to be honest: he wasn’t sure when he made that order that Sehun was actually going to follow through, even after his eyes went wide from the sharp shock of Kyungsoo hurting him intentionally. And, looking at the wide-eyed face in front of him, he thinks that Sehun wasn’t sure he was going to follow through, either.

But Kyungsoo forces himself to take it in stride. “Now,” he says, cupping Sehun’s face in one hand, turning the boy’s gaze back to his own face. “Hand out of your mouth, Sehun.” He reaches forward, hooks a finger in the curve of Sehun’s hand, and tugs his finger from his mouth. He can feel the roughness of Sehun’s teeth scraping across his knuckle as he pulls, and he pretends to ignore the bright blink of pain in Sehun’s eyes as he does so. He’s got the boy’s attention, then. A good start.

Sehun, for his part, lets his finger go easily enough, his eyes on Kyungsoo’s face. His jaw remains parted, though, teeth knuckle-width apart, lips pale and slack. Already, his breath is steadying, the frantic rise and fall of his chest giving way to something more normal, more even.

“Good boy,” Kyungsoo whispers, the words buzzing across numb lips, Sehun’s hand warm and impossibly heavy in his own. He carefully lowers it, slowly, bringing it to rest beside the other boy’s side before letting it go. He’s not sure why he’s being so careful, but something says that he should be, and so he is.

Sehun just keeps watching him, his mouth closed, now. His eyes are still wide, but his jaw is starting to tighten up again.

Kyungsoo doesn’t let that go any further. His hand on Sehun’s lower jaw tightens, not to the point of pain, but enough so that Sehun has no choice but to look at him, to focus on what Kyungsoo wants. “Corner,” Kyungsoo tells him.

Sehun’s eyes flash, fierce and disagreeable, and he starts to make a sound of protest.

Kyungsoo cuts him off. “No,” he says, sharp. “You _will_ put your nose in that corner, Oh Sehun, and you _will_ think about how you have been acting today. Am I understood?”

It takes a moment, and the muscles of Sehun’s jaw flex under Kyungsoo’s fingers, but eventually, he grits out, “Yes, Kyungsoo.” He swallows, hard.

Kyungsoo nods his approval, then releases Sehun’s jaw. “Go on, then,” he says. “You can stand up.” He’s not going to make Sehun kneel in the corner. _That_ little bit of powerplay was just to get his attention.

Taking a deep breath, Sehun rises to his feet, finally looking away from Kyungsoo’s face. He keeps his eyes on the floor as he turns, walks to the nearby corner, and presses his nose to the wall, obedient to the very letter of Kyungsoo’s intention. His shoulders tight, he throws a look back at Kyungsoo, and then…

And then he kneels, lowering himself carefully to the floor, putting his nose back in the corner just as soon as he’s stable again.

Kyungsoo blinks back his own surprise. If that’s what Sehun feels he needs… He steps up behind the other boy, snagging one wrist. Gentle, careful not to strain anything in a way it shouldn’t go, he twists Sehun’s arm behind his back, settling his left wrist against the small of his back. “Keep it there,” he says, even as he reaches for the other arm. This one moves more easily, Sehun catching on to his idea and aiding the motion, even as he lets Kyungsoo position him like a doll. Kyungsoo closes the fingers of the left hand around the wrist of the right, then, after a moment’s contemplation, folds Sehun’s right fingers into a loose fist.

He steps back, observing the scene. Sehun is nicely pressed into the corner, compact and unobtrusive in a way those that know him would likely be surprised about. It’s a little off-putting, true, but also...right, in a strange way. Not perfect, though, not yet. Kyungsoo sets that aside for later, even as he steps back against the other wall and leans, just watching.

They remain like that for a while, cornered sub and overseeing dom, the hum of the air conditioner and the steady tick of a nearby clock echoing ever louder by the moment. There is a strange rhythm to it, the sound of their breathing, the shush of Kyungsoo’s clothes as he shifts against the wall, the building’s own sounds of life.

Then Sehun speaks up. His voice is quiet, young. “How...how long do I have to do this?” he asks, and it sounds like he’s trying to work up that earlier indignation. The bite just isn’t there, though.

“Until I say differently,” Kyungsoo replies, tone even. “Now, what did I say? Stop thinking about the punishment and start thinking about what you did to earn it.”

Sehun’s shoulders tense for the briefest of seconds, and then they relax. The tension floods out from his shoulders, his spine, his arms, until he is calm and quiescent in a way he wasn’t before. His breathing deepens, slows.

His eyes on his watch, Kyungsoo settles in to wait.

\---

Dance practise is completely different the next day, Sehun only sassing out of habit, no bite to his words, no venom to his movement. He’s not a completely different person, no, but he seems far more comfortable, at least for the moment. 

Kyungsoo, Baekhyun notes, is different, too. He’s normally dominant enough that there’s little chance of anyone mistaking him for a sub, but not in any kind of intentional or deliberate manner. It’s just a part of who he is, to tell people to do things or to glare at them when they are trying to pick on him. Baekhyun himself has gotten the sharp end of Kyungsoo’s tongue more than once, and if he’s honest, he’s earned it most of those times. But Kyungsoo isn’t one of those people who throws his dominance around like a sledgehammer, or at all, really, so it’s strange to see the way he’s tracking Sehun.

Baekhyun almost wants to ask what happened in the hall yesterday afternoon. Almost. The last time he pissed off Kyungsoo, he’d gotten a bony-as-fuck fist to the side, and tiny as the other man is, his knuckles are sharp. It had hurt, and not quite in a fun kind of way.

Instead, he settles for watching the room as a whole, trying not to focus on any one person (read, Sehun or Kyungsoo) for too long. And, after a moment, he realises that he’s not the only one watching people. Or, rather, trying _not_ to watch people.

Junmyeon is startlingly subtle, Baekhyun knows, for a boy his age. And, really, that’s why the way his eyes are following Jongin around the room is so interesting. Honest.

Baekhyun wonders, albeit briefly, if he would have any better luck convincing himself of this if he said it aloud. He has his doubts.

And then he has no energy to focus on anything but dancing. That, and trying to get enough air in his lungs to keep dancing. And then just to keep alive. Dance practise is never gentle, frequently strays into “brutal,” even, but today… Today, the only one even somewhat keeping up with the show is Jongin. Even he is red-faced and gasping for breath by the time a halt is called.

Zitao stumbles to the ground, whining little pants escaping him. Beside him, Jongdae sits and just breathes, his fingers wrapped tight around his water bottle, as if he’s waiting to be able to drink it. Sehun, flat on the floor behind them, looks like even the thought of sitting up to drink water is too much. 

“Great job, Jongin,” the instructor is saying, slapping Jongin’s shoulder, not even seeming to notice the way that the young man sways with the motion, exhausted through and through. “You were on fire this evening, really dancing with your whole heart. It was a great show. Keep that up, and you’re gonna have them eating out of your hand. That was beautiful.”

Jongin’s eyes are shining almost as much as his face. “Thanks,” he breathes, still trying to get his lungs back under control. “Thank you.” Beaming, he eases himself down to the ground, starting his cool-down stretches, boneless and smooth.

Baekhyun watches him bend and flex, a stray curiosity flickering through his mind at the way Jongin moves, the sudden and unusual easiness to his body. He’s not the only one noticing, either, he realises, because Minseok’s watching Junmyeon watch Jongin with that far-too-familiar look in his eyes...

\---

Yifan watches as the skin beneath his hand goes even redder, darkening up quite impressively. Though he’s already turned her ass a wicked shade of red, he’s enjoying watching the colour get richer and richer with every heavy beat of his hand. 

The woman sprawled across the bed in front of him seems to be enjoying it, too, if the way her hips are moving against his mattress is any indication. She’s crying, of course, because if there’s one thing Wu Yifan has not been, it’s gentle. But she didn’t come to him because she wanted gentle, oh, no. She answered his messages, knowing what she was in for, what he was looking for. 

Yifan smirks as he lifts his hand again. He can see the way her ass flexes, unconsciously flinching away from the smack she’s expecting. It doesn’t fall, though; Yifan is nothing if not a tease, and he knows it. Instead, even as she shakes out another sob, he gently places both hands on her ass and rubs the red, raw cheeks firmly, squeezing and rubbing mercilessly.

The resulting wail makes him grin, sharp and hard. “Ah, Eunsoo,” he teases. “Does that sting?” 

She sobs again, pressing her face into the sheets. Her fingers tighten against her wrists, bound together as they are against her back, completely immobilised. He’s tied her ankles, too, one to either post at the footboard of his small dorm bed. As she wriggles against the cheap mattress, the whole affair creaks and rattles.

The creaking increases wildly as Yifan thrusts his hand between her spread thighs, his long fingers teasing wickedly against her so-sensitive skin. Even as she whimpers, he strokes slowly, slowly, and then slides his fingers inside.

She screams.

\---

Luhan frowns, wrapping his arms around a tightly-bound Minseok. Both of them can hear everything going on in the other room through the too-thin wall, can hear the woman thanking Yifan, though his response is inaudible. There are more sounds: feet on hardwood, soft voices--too quiet to hear, the floor creaking beneath the both of them as they move around the room. There is a click and snap, the door opening and closing, and then a person in the hall.

Minseok mumbles something, sleepy and sweet, against Luhan’s shoulder. He presses his face into soft skin, the only thing he really can do, tied up as he is. He likes the tight grip of the ropes, twined tender and careful around his arms and torso, weaving him together in Luhan’s control. 

Luhan sighs, brushing a gentle, friendly kiss to the top of Minseok’s warm head, letting him know that he’s not upset at him. “I don’t know how he does it,” he whispers, the words tracing soft across the back of Minseok’s neck.

Minseok hums his understanding, pressing closer, as if trying to soothe Luhan by wrapping himself around him, as protective as possible. “You wouldn’t,” he murmurs, his eyes fluttering as he yawns. 

A soft smile, sad though it is, trails across Luhan’s face. “Never,” he promises. Careful not to disturb Minseok too much--bless this man for the way he moves so easily with Luhan’s every movement!--he brings a hand from underneath the both of them to cup the back of Minseok’s head, even as his other arm wraps around his body and pulls the other man close. He hooks his fingers into the fancy netting he’s woven in the back of the harness Minseok is wearing, holding him tight.

In his embrace, Minseok shivers happily, cuddled close and knowing he is loved.

Even if neither of them will say the L word.


	6. Chapter Six

Minseok burrows under Luhan’s arm, purring in the early morning sleepy warmth that puddles between them. It’s rare that they get to sleep in late enough for the sunlight to stream through the window, rarer still that they share a bed.

Luhan has been frustratingly strict about that whole ‘non-sexual, custodial guardianship’ thing. Frankly, it’s driving Minseok bonkers. Like, okay, he _knows_ why Luhan stipulated it, and he knows that if Luhan _hadn’t_ , no one in their right mind would have let him near Minseok, the way he was. He’s not stupid, thank you, and he’s talked through this in every possible permutation with his social worker.

And his mom.

Although he might maybe have gone into more of the sexy details with his social worker than with his mom. Whatever, he’s not an idiot. Just completely and totally gone on the one person in the company who’s signed a contract saying he _won’t_ have sex with him.

“I’m a moron,” Minseok mutters into the sharp curve of Luhan’s hip.

“Hmm?” Luhan more breathes than says, rolling slightly as he comes awake. He cracks an eye, sees Minseok. Reaching down, he tangles his hand in the other man’s hair, stroking across his scalp with his fingernails.

It feels good. Better than good. Minseok nearly forgets what it is he is thinking about.

Then Luhan moves again, and his legs bobble against Minseok’s chest, and he remembers all over again.

“Luhan,” he says.

“Mm-hmm?”

“We need to talk.”

\---

In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have panicked at those words. Or at least, not panic as badly as he did, at the time.

But can you really blame him? _We need to talk_ never ends well, never, not in relationships. And even though he shouldn’t, knows he shouldn’t, Luhan thinks of what he has with Minseok as a relationship. It’s a working relationship, alright, but still. That’s a relationship, right? It’s not the one that Luhan wants—he wants the one where he can hold Minseok all through the night and not think twice about it, the one where he can follow Minseok into the bathroom and take his time washing the sweat from his sub’s tired muscles at the end of the day, the one where he can meet Minseok’s smiling eyes and kiss the taste of his awkward Mandarin from his lips.

He’ll settle for what he’s got, though. It may not be everything, and maybe, in this case, some is worse than none. But how can anyone blame him for wanting what little he can have? They can’t, Luhan thinks. Not if they’ve ever seen Minseok on his knees, Minseok leaning heavily into his touch, not if they’ve ever heard Minseok counting breathily while his ass reddens up, or felt him melt beneath their hands.

The thought of losing that… It scares him.

Of course, when Minseok realizes _why_ Luhan has just bolted upright in bed, he is all stuttered apologies and stammered denials and wildly waving hands.

“Not like that! Not like that!” he yelps, bouncing a little on the mattress. “No, no. I just… I.” He bites his lip, worrying at it with his perfect white teeth.

Luhan, unthinking, stretches forward and tugs that swollen lower lip from between Minseok’s teeth. He clutches it between thumb and forefinger, tugging gently. “Don’t hurt yourself, MinMin,” he says, scolding.

And that’s when Minseok kisses him.

\---

When they get back to the apartment that M shares, Luhan laughs. He points out the elegant _pan chang_ hanging from the handle of the door to the room they share; it’s tied in vibrant crimson and dotted with sparkling blue beads that look like gems. The trailing ends are tied up in tiny knots that hide in the shadows.

“Is that a chrysanthemum knot?” Minseok asks, leaning forward to peer at it. “Oh, hey. _Nalgae_!” He lifts the tiny knots at the bottom into the light, revealing that they are woven together from both the red ribbon and another the same shade of blue as the gems.

Luhan gently tugs the pretty work off the handle, opening the door even as he shows it to Minseok. “It’s a well-wish,” he says, one hand going to the small of the other man’s back. He ushers him into the room, snaps the door shut behind them. “Red for luck, of course, and blue because, well.” He flushes. “It’s my color.”

Minseok traces a finger around the blue silk ribbon tied around his throat, hidden though it is by the hood of his sweatshirt. “Blue, huh?”

“Han blue,” Luhan confirms, nodding. He nudges the gems with a finger. “Nine jewels, which I think is a nod to you being Korean. Probably because Zitao—I recognize his knots—couldn’t figure out a nine-looped luck knot. So that’s eight, which, you know, lucky.”

“And the ends?”

“Are going to get Yixing in a world of hurt,” Luhan says, pleasantly enough in the way that says he’s _this_ close to committing homicide. “They’re called true-lover’s knots. You usually present them to someone being collared, like...a well-wish, I guess? Dom parents tie them on the rope-collars of their submissive children before the ceremony, and the new dom is supposed to attach one to the sub’s collar for the reception. You wear it until it falls off. It’s...one family wishing you well as you leave, and the other welcoming you.” He bites his lip, cheeks pink in an oddly endearing flush.

Minseok strokes the soft curves of the elegant work, taking in all that it means. That Tao and Yixing would go to this effort says more than the simple messages of the knots themselves; it means that they are welcoming him into their little cobbled-together family, that they are accepting him as a part of Luhan’s life, as a part of _theirs_. It means that they want well for him, that they want him to be happy.

Having gathered up the necessary composure to look at him once more, Luhan watches Minseok’s face quietly for a long, still moment. Finally, he says, “these days, they’re also used as, uh, ‘do not disturb’ signs.” He huffs a quiet sound of amused embarrassment.

That makes Minseok laugh. That sounds like the boys they live with, alright. Taking the knotted doorhanging from Luhan’s hands, he opens the door, reaches outside, and hangs it back where they found it. Then he pulls the door closed, and grins at his— _his!_ —dom. “So those love knots. They’re for marriages, right?”

Luhan nods.

“So…that makes this our wedding night, right?” He winks.

As he watches, Luhan’s eyes darken from sloe-eyed sable to a dangerous, glittering black. Bright colour flushes into his high, narrow cheeks, and his lips part ever-so-slightly. He steps forward into Minseok’s space, and then keeps going until the sub is pressed back against the door. One slim hand slides forward, and he traces just the tip of his finger along the curve of Minseok’s throat, following the line of the ribbon he put there.

Minseok closes his eyes, lost in the single point of contact. Luhan might not be allowed to put a real collar on him, not even for play—might damage his skin or his voice, apparently—but they had allowed him this much, had allowed him this delicate sign of being owned. Minseok thinks he might even almost prefer it, because really, how more owned could he be, than to be marked as a prized possession in something so soft and sweet? Luhan owns him down to his very bones; the collar, flimsy as it is, is just a formality.

He can feel himself drifting already, his blood and his heart moving in time with the slow sway of Luhan’s long finger along his throat. God. He loves how easily this man tips him down, down, down the spiral staircase into his mind, where he worries about nothing and feels everything all at once.

And then Luhan’s mouth is on his once more, and Minseok gives up thinking all together.

\---

Luhan watches Minseok start floating, the sass that usually comes so easily to his lips tumbling away as he licks the combined taste of the two of them from the shiny red skin. His eyes are wide and dark, shimmering pools of night amid the high, hectic pink of his cheeks. Luhan allows himself a long, wonderful moment to enjoy the sight of Minseok pressed against the door, dazed and beautiful, before he moves into action.

His shirt comes off easily enough, and he throws it into the far corner that they’ve started calling the hamper. Running his eyes over Minseok’s muscular frame, he makes a quick decision. “Strip,” he orders, backing up the command with a sharp nod of his head.

It’s not an unfamiliar order, really. Luhan always has been a strong supporter of the idea that clothes make the man and, in Minseok’s case, nudity makes the sub. Certainly Minseok has taken it as the power-exchange it’s intended to be; being naked in front of (or under, or beside, or beneath) a Luhan still wearing his jeans or his sweatpants or sometimes all of the clothes he started the day in tends to put him in his place, hard and wonderful.

This is the first time, however, that Luhan’s desire for Minseok’s nudity is going to lead to his own nudity. Minseok strips down with startling alacrity, shedding his sweatshirt, his shirt, his shoes and his socks and his trousers and boxers with swift movement. Then he is kneeling in front of Luhan, wearing nothing but the sleek blue ribbon tied ‘round his throat and an eager look.

Luhan cups Minseok’s cheek in one hand, feeling that wonderfully soft skin beneath his hand, warm with the excited flush. “You are ridiculously pretty,” he says.

Minseok grins, nuzzling into his hand. “Thank you, Sir,” he says. He takes a deep breath, and then his eyes flutter shut. With a sigh, he leans nearly his entire body into Luhan. “ _Please, Sir,_ ” he murmurs in smooth, accented Mandarin. “ _Take your pleasure from this body._ ”

With a hiss, Luhan inhales sharply. One of his Chinese teammates must have taught that to Minseok. There is no logical way for the Korean man to know the proper, formal invitation for a dom of Luhan’s rank, otherwise.

His hand tightens on Minseok’s jaw. “Of course,” he says, breathless and wanting. “Get me naked.”

\---

“Could you have been any louder?” Jongdae says, scowling at Minseok over breakfast. “I mean, really.”

Minseok snickers. “Probably. Why? Is that a challenge, Jong-ah?”

“No!” Yixing says, slamming down his spoon. “I swear to god, Minseok—”

“Blame Luhaaaaan,” Minseok sings, beaming. He feels wonderful this morning, feels like he could take on the world right now. His skin is still singing from his first major sexual scene with his dom—his dom!—and he couldn’t care less about the whining from the others. They’re just jealous, anyway.

“What am I in trouble for?” Luhan asks, coming into the kitchen with his face still damp from his morning ablutions, Yifan on his heels. He gathers up his breakfast, which Minseok set aside in advance, and settles at the table, into the chair that the sub has abandoned for him. He leans down, kisses Minseok softly, and thanks him silently for saving him the seat by rubbing a thumb across the curve of the top of his spine.

Yixing gags dramatically. “Help, help. I think I’m becoming diabetic.”

Luhan rolls his eyes. “Jealousy’s unattractive, XingXing.”

“So is smugness,” Yifan replies, side-eyeing the both of them. He accepts the bowl Tao offers him with quiet thanks. “We all know why you were at SooMan’s office yesterday, Luhan, Minseok. We don’t need the pair of you rubbing it in.”

“Or out, as the case was,” Jongdae says, sotto voce.

Tao snickers into his milk. 

Neither Luhan nor Minseok even has the grace to look embarrassed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OTL
> 
> I AM THE WORST. I AM SO SORRY.
> 
> Somehow, the realities of being an adult with a fulltime job just keep getting in the way of me writing (or, more importantly, editing). Thank you so much for your ongoing patience, and for continuing to read, even though I am terrible, terrible! Thank you also to my lovely unnie, who betaed for me, and who is the reason this is even as semi-readable as it is!!
> 
> Also, the next chapter is ALREADY WRITTEN and is being proofed even as I post, so (hopefully) the next posting will come much sooner!! :)


	7. Chapter Seven

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Chanyeol murmurs, watching Baekhyun work the sleek black stockings up the pale length of his thigh. His eyes trace the lacy edge of the lingerie, lingering on the shimmering silver threads woven through the very top; they glow, cool and untouchable, against the milky-warm tone of Baekhyun’s slender legs. He loves seeing Baekhyun like this, loves watching him adorn himself in smooth curves and glittering chains, adores seeing him dot himself with sparkling gems, bright pops of sharp color against his elegant body. Like this, Baekhyun is entirely his, an elegance reserved specifically for Park Chanyeol.

Baekhyun smiles at him, slow and warm, that little bit crooked turn in the corner saying that this is real. “You like me all pretty for you,” he says, lowering his eyes. His eyelashes are a smoky smudge against his cheeks. “After all, you’re the one who finds these things for me.”

He strokes a hand across the chain dangling between his nipples, making the tiny bells chime and the deep, emerald-green beads sparkle in the light.

Chanyeol swallows, hard. Unconsciously, he sinks his teeth into his lower lip, his eyes following the same path that Baekhyun’s fingers made. He shifts against the wall, spreading his legs a little wider.

Baekhyun’s sleek smile only grows. He lowers his eyes once more, playful and demure in a way that no man wearing nipple clamps and lacy stockings should be able to pull off. “Please,” he says, quiet, “I need your help with this next part.”

And isn’t that just Baekhyun’s charm, Chanyeol reflects, doing the impossible and making it seem so natural that he is already stepping towards him before he registers what’s been said? He finds his hands settling against Baekhyun’s hips, where they look large, square, strong, maybe even rough, against the slim, sloping lines of the other boy’s bones. In his grasp, Baekhyun melts into something slender and ethereal, a fragile being of light and sound.

It makes Chanyeol yearn to wreck this man, to grip those narrow hips bruisingly tight between his big, strong hands, to press and to hold until Baekhyun is wearing jewelry that only Chanyeol has put there, that only Chanyeol can put there. He wants to hold him and not let go, slowly increasing his grasp, until his knuckles are square white stones set in the aching dark bezel of the bruises his fingertips will leave on Baekhyun’s skin. Baekhyun will wear those sapphire-dark stains for days, a week, at least, and when the stars drift from the sapphire-blue and become amethyst and then slowly fade into peridot, Chanyeol knows that Baekhyun will be back.

But for now, Baekhyun is laughing, low and quiet in his throat, leaning into Chanyeol’s hands. “Come on, lover,” he whispers, the words trickling soft against the shell of Chanyeol’s ear. He brings his own hands down, so light and small, to settle on top of the heavy steelwork of the other man’s. He’s holding the ends of the descending rolo chain, the ones that trail down from the emerald bead-and-bell pendant in the center of his sternum. The little bells tremble and chime against their neighboring beads, shivering against the flat plane of his belly. “Chain me up, yeah?”

Chains, for them, will never mean what they do for people like Minseok and Luhan. For those two, shopping at the hardware store is something like going to a candy shop. But Chanyeol sees the lengths of chain that are sold in dynamic shops and shivers; the idea of letting his partner press something so unwieldy into his skin is nightmarish, and the idea of putting something like that on his partner is anathema to him. (His dynamics teacher had commented once that Chanyeol was a very unique type of service submissive: opinionated and selfish. He thinks, sometimes, that she wasn’t wrong.) 

Chaining up Baekhyun means taking the delicate little lobster clasp between his broad fingers, pinching it open as carefully as he can. It means taking the rolo chain from Baekhyun’s hands and wrapping it all the way behind him, until the end of the chain swirls against the dimpled center of Baekhyun’s lower back, the tiny silver bell that serves a finial a weight and a tease in one. It means Baekhyun’s lips, blood-hot and bitten-red, pressed against his collarbone, Baekhyun’s pretty voice whining in his ear, Baekhyun’s heart racing against their close-pressed chests as Chanyeol slides the shank of the clasp through the final ring, slow and steady so that the chain twined ‘round Baekhyun’s hips barely even shrugs, even as the spring slips closed.

Baekhyun, though...Baekhyun moans, shivers, and the bells sing with the motion, rising in high counterpoint to his voice, while the deep green beads dance against his pale skin, weaving and tangling with the cool silver of the chain to which they are attached.

Chanyeol shivers at the sight, feeling heat rocket through his blood. Baekhyun is beautiful, and Chanyeol is the one who has done this to him, has decorated and marked him. He is the one who has painted pleasure across Baekhyun’s cheeks, bright swoops of colour on his face and warming his chest. He identifies as a service submissive and profiles the same way, and he gets a jealous glee out of knowing that he cradles Baekhyun’s pleasure in the palm of his hand so easily.

Thinking of that, Chanyeol draws a finger up Baekhyun’s torso. He starts at the low pit of the other man’s belly, flicking the golden ring, flesh-warmed, through his navel, just for the joy of watching Baekhyun’s mouth fall open, helpless and hoping. But he doesn’t stop there, instead traces an invisible, meandering line up the long stretch of Baekhyun’s body, letting his nails trail feather-light over the forming ridges of his abs, across the steady sturdiness of his breastbone, over the rapid rising and falling heave of his chest. Chanyeol flicks those pretty nipple rings, more for the breathless gasp that wrings from Baekhyun than for any sense of balance.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when a warm hand settles over his own. Startled, he looks down into Baekhyun’s flushed face, into those beautiful, lust-dazed eyes.

“Come on,” Baekhyun murmurs, the words a breathy sigh. He bites his own lip, teeth pressing against his lower lip in a way that Chanyeol aches to imitate. His eyes flutter shut for a moment as he takes a deep, steadying breath, his lashes an obsidian shadow against the high arch of his cheek. Then they are open, and his hazy gaze is fixed on Chanyeol’s face. “As I recall, you said something about a bed. I’m not letting you fuck me against a wall.”

Chanyeol feels his own mouth curving into a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I did. Come on, then, beautiful boy.” And, tangling Baekhyun’s fingers in with his own, he gently tugs the other man to the other side of the room, where their beds, pushed together, are waiting.

\---

“Is it always like that?” Minho asks, eyes wide, even five minutes after leaving the apartment, and Baekhyun and Chanyeol’s noises, behind.

Junmyeon snorts. “If they’re not sniping at each other, they’re fucking,” he says bluntly. “And if they’re not fucking, Minseok’s wandering around with a dazed look in his eyes that says he and Luhan just were. Or that they were getting up to something I’d really rather not think about.”

“Is he really a nine?” Minho interrupts, leaning forward, elbows propped on the small picnic table’s sun-bleached, weather-smudged surface. “I mean, I’m sorry you’re dealing with shenanigans, but seriously. Is the one kid actually a nine?”

“He’s a nine-six,” Junmyeon says, dry as bone dust. “So basically a ten, yeah. But it’s weird. Sometimes, I mean, sometimes you can tell that he breaks the scale, that he’s really, really dominant. But other times?” He shakes his head. “Remember Jinki-hyung, when we first started? When you thought for _sure_ he was a dom?”

Minho throws the wrapper from his straw at his friend’s face. “Shut up, Myeonnie.”

“He’s like that, some days,” Junmyeon continues. He crumples the wrapper paper into a small ball, setting it beside his own cup. “Mild as milk, but with that...hint.”

“So you agree that Jinki-hyung read as dom?”

“No, I still think you were fooling yourself,” Junmyeon laughs. “Hyung may have that sense of “I know what I want and I’m going to get it,” but I’m telling you, that’s always just been that he’s a stubborn son of a bitch.”

Minho makes a face at him. “So while you’re stuck in Loversland, has anyone caught your eye? I’m also required to tell you that Kibummie-hyung’s offer still stands, whatever that offer may have been.”

Junmyeon shakes his head, both in answer to the question and in commentary on Kibum’s suggestion. “Told you once, I’ve told you twice, Minho. You do _not_ want the details of that offer. And no, I’m not treating my group like a dating pool. There’s enough shit going on without me getting tangled up in anything like that.”

“Oh, god,” Minho says, face wrinkling. “Hyung offered you something kinky with Jinki-hyung, didn’t he? He did. He really actually did. Oh, god, I cannot unthink of that.”

“You’ll get wrinkles if you keep making that face,” Junmyeon returns, placid. He takes a long, noise slurp of his iced tea.

“Can you not...be all...accepting? That’s our hyungs we’re talking about.” Minho still seems to be struggling with what is probably a far more graphic mental image than anything Kibum ever suggested to Junmyeon, if the mix of horror and disgust on his face is any indication.

“I told you you didn’t want to know,” Junmyeon says. He pauses. “Though, given that this is the first time you’ve put two and two together--who have those two been involved with?”

“NOPE!” Minho declares, throwing up his hands. “We are not going there, Myeonnie, not unless I am drunk and also about to die. And probably not even then. So. Let’s talk about things that don’t involve our hyungs or fucking or our hyungs fucking. Let’s talk about your group. Tell me more about them.”

“Our hyungs--Jonghyun?! They asked Jonghyun?!”

“How did you get that from--nevermind. Not talking about it. Not _thinking_ about it! YOUR GROUP.”

Laughing a little, despite himself and the frustration he’s experiencing, Junmyeon accepts the change of topic. “Well, let’s see, avoiding fucking and hyungs… It’s exhausting, honestly. And not even the actual debut stuff! Just dealing with people. I swear, I spend half my time either dealing with temper tantrums or following up on whatever caused the temper tantrum. And sometimes it’s easy to deal with, like Jongdae having his knickers in a knot because M keeps forgetting to speak Korean around him, or Kyungsoo losing his temper and accidentally domming up at whoever, and then sometimes… Sometimes it’s Jongin being thrilled and happy one second and then bitter and angry the next. Or Zitao being scared of his own shadow, or Sehun being...well. Sehun being Sehun.”

Minho frowns. “Sehun being Sehun?”

“I have never met another sub who brats the way that boy does,” Junmyeon says, his head falling to the table. “ _Never_. He meets with Eunmi-noona on a regular basis, like, weekly regular, and he’s still spending half his time snarking at anyone who looks at him and the other half picking fights. And I then have to clean up after said fights, because someone is always pissed off and ready to feed his own tongue to him, and I can’t actually _let_ them, even though I want to, because I’m the leader.”

Minho whistled, low and quiet. “Sounds like a hell of a charmer, there.”

“That’s the worst part!” Junmyeon groans, still face-planted on the table. He flails a little. “When he’s not trying to be a little shit? He’s actually kind of sweet. Adorable, even.” He whines and kicks. “What am I gonna do, Minho?”

A low laugh behind his back startles the pair of them; Junmyeon sits up, his forehead peeling nastily away from the sun-baked picnic table, to see a familiar, comforting face. Minho waves at his hyung, holding up his illicit frappucino in offering.

“Thanks,” Jinki says, reaching for the drink as he steps up behind Junmyeon. He puts one warm hand on the tired man’s shoulder, then bends down and presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “You’re sounding a little tense, Jun-Jun,” he says. “Boy troubles? Girl troubles? Both troubles?”

Junmyeon snorts, shaking his head a little. He still leans back into the offered comfort of Jinki’s presence, though. “ _Brat_ troubles,” he admits tiredly. “I don’t know what to do, hyung. Eunmi-noona’s not cutting it for him.”

Jinki hums his understanding, taking a long slurp of Minho’s drink (and ignoring his glare). After a moment, he puts the drink down on the table, and his other hand--cool and damp from the sweat on the outside of the cup--lands on Junmyeon’s other shoulder. He squeezes gently, halfway between a reminder that he’s there and the precursor to a shoulder rub. “You know,” he says, “SM has contracted outside the company, before. When they’ve needed to.” Leaning in, he presses a cold, coffee-scented kiss to the very edge of Junmyeon’s mouth. “Donghae-sunbaenim was one hell of a brat, or so I hear.”

\---

“I can’t believe I am still doing this,” Heechul groans, leaning heavily back in one of the uncomfortable small chairs scattered outside the CEO’s office. He feels old, actually, sitting here with Donghae working on a crossword next to him and some new rookie seated across from him. He wasn’t that young when they debuted. No way in hell.

“Please,” Donghae snorts, flipping to the back for an answer before turning back to the correct page. “You love seeing Mina-noona and you can’t even fake different.”

Heechul shoots him a sour look. He does _not_ love seeing that woman, no matter what Donghae seems to have convinced himself. The only reason he has ever, ever willingly spent time in her presence that he was not actively being forced to was because he was the only dom in SuJu that Donghae would even pretend to listen to, at the time, and he needed to know how to not actually break the younger kid, either mentally or physically. Heechul always has tended towards the, ah, heavier ends of play, after all.

Which, honestly, does not explain why he is here right now, at all. Donghae is long past the point where he needs outside experts to help manage his dynamic; he’s found a sweet little domme who somehow manages to have him singing to her tune with surprisingly minimal fuss. Heechul has never availed himself of Mina’s services, nor those of the submissives employed by the same company. If he wants to play, he finds himself a partner, and that’s all there is to it. At this stage, he has plenty of numbers from plenty of people who stand to lose just as much as he does if names and preferences get leaked. While his playbook will never be as populous as Kyuhyun’s--there’s something to be said for being midlevel and having a taste for shibari--neither is he hurting for partners. He’s Kim fucking Heechul, after all.

“Don’t give me that face,” Donghae says, and the little shit isn’t even looking up from his crossword. “You delight in every single minute you get to spend with her. If only because she gets that look on her face when you mention ‘control’.”

Heechul smirks. She really does get a great look on her face. Like she’s being stared down by prospective in-laws while someone rubs lemon juice into paper cuts between her toes. He’s pretty sure her eye has started twitching, at least once. Maybe more frequently. But she never calls him sick or threatens to report him, even when he knows she’s a little disturbed by how hard he takes things. Their dynamics are definitely different, for all that they’re both relatively high-scaling dominants, and his trends in a less socially-accepted direction than hers does. But she respects that, or at least seems to, if only because being a professional domme has trained her to not judge ninety percent of the dynamics she encounters. It’s a nice change, actually.

Doesn’t mean he finds spending time with her a delight, though. Donghae’s full of shit.

“Don’t you have someone to spank this nonsense out of you?” he asks, curious, leaning over to look at his bandmate. “Someone small, adorable, currently in China with her students for the week…?”

Donghae waves away his concern, though he does close the crosswords. “She’s in Japan, hyung, honestly. Anyway, there needs to be someone here to introduce Sehun-ah to Mina-noona, and I’m pretty sure he thinks you’re going to eat him alive, and not in the fun way.”

The boy on the other side of the room squeaks and turns a disturbing shade of red.

Heechul leers at him for all of two seconds, and then he remembers how young the kid has to be, and leans back. He turns his attention back to Donghae. “And why am I here, then? Surely you don’t need me holding your hand for introductions.”

Donghae rolls his eyes. “Because,” he says sharply, “Lee Sooman-sajangnim, in his infinite wisdom, has decided that, since you have experience with brats needing external support, _you_ are going to be Sehun-ah’s on-call within the company.”

The look Heechul gives him? He’s not too proud to admit that it’s nothing short of absolutely horrified.

\---

“You,” the woman says drily, pacing around Sehun as he kneels, “are going to need a posture collar in my presence, I can already tell.” She taps one long, manicured finger against her arm. “Heechul-ssi, I assume the company can get one fitted for him?”

Heechul rolls his eyes. “I’ve met your secretary, Jung Mina,” he says. “And I look nothing like her. That said, yes, I am sure they do. And, if not, I know of a good, private place.” He pauses, waits for half a beat, then adds, “You know how I am about perfection, after all.”

The woman lets her shoulder tighten, just a little. It doesn’t keep her from slapping a booted foot against Sehun’s ankle, even as her hands clamp on his shoulders. “I told you,” she tells him, “to kneel.”

Sehun scowls at her knees. “I am,” he says, the verbal equivalent of one of his eloquent eye-rolls. “Knees, floor, hmm?” 

Heechul’s impressed. The boy tries to gesture, even with Mina’s claws on his skin. It doesn’t go well; she knows all about controlling a body, after all, and that’s kind of her entire job here. But he has to admit that it takes some impressive levels of stupid to snark back at a professional domme, and especially one as good at what she does as Jung Mina. Even if your dynamic’s fucking with your head, which the kid’s clearly is.

Mina just rolls her eyes and shoves, an elegant flick of her arm.

The boy topples face-first towards the floor. He doesn’t reach to catch himself--surprised, maybe?--but that’s okay; the carpets in here are soft, cushioned and plush for situations just like this.

A booted foot between his shoulderblades keeps him from rising immediately.

“What the hell?” he grouses into the carpet.

Mina shoots Heechul an inviting look.

Rolling his eyes, he accepts his cue. “She told you to kneel, Sehun-ah.” He pushes himself off the wall, hands coming to rest in his pockets as he strides forward. The carpet is soft beneath his bare feet, comfortably so. He remembers being here with Donghae, years ago, and squats in front of this boy just the same way. 

Sehun’s glower is fierce, fierce and wild and young. It’s very different than that scene from years ago, when it had been a different boy on the carpet in front of him. Donghae was never quite this bratty, Heechul realises, and is startled to feel a thrill of amusement in his stomach. This kid really is young, all the way ‘round. He lets Sehun see his amusement, lets it tease the boy’s frustration.

“She told you to kneel,” he repeats, finally, when Sehun’s eyes are fixed on him, only on him, and it’s clear he’s near wordless with anger. “She did not give you permission to fidget.”

\---

“Want some ramyun?” Luhan asks between hasty gulps of noodles and salty broth. He starts to make as if to stand.

Minseok’s lips curl up, and he shakes his head slowly. “No, no,” he assures the dom, yawning as he settles at the man’s feet. “I’m good.” He yawns again, then leans heavily against Luhan’s leg, face tucked against his knee.

Luhan smiles down at him, now also yawning. He puts the bowl of noodles down on the table, then rests his now-free hand on top of Minseok’s head for a moment. “Grabbed something earlier, huh? Well, that’s good.” He swallows another yawn, then lifts his noodles and starts working on them again.

“Mm,” Minseok agrees, already half-asleep. 

Now down to just broth, Luhan sets aside his chopsticks. His hand goes back into Minseok’s hair, stroking and petting, even as he slurps down the last of salty, savory broth. Bed, he thinks, sounds good right about now. Bed with Minseok, even better.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than normal, and I apologise. But we're revving up. I promise!!

Minseok, awake despite the god-forsaken hour, rolls off of the couch with a sigh. He’d tried sleeping out in the living area in an effort not to wake his exhausted lover with his tossing and turning, but he’s starting to think that it might have been better just to stay in their small, close-pressed little knot in bed. Luhan is likely so tired that he’s all but dead to the world, and who knows? Maybe the comfort of his presence might have overcome the too-tired-to-sleep weariness wearing on Minseok’s bones.

It’s too late for that now, though, because he can hear the alarm starting in Yifan’s room. With a groan, he hauls himself to his feet and towards the bathroom. It will take Yifan a few minutes to wake up enough to even turn off his alarm, and that leaves him at least ten minutes before anyone else’s alarm goes off. If he heads in now, he’ll be able to swipe first shower for the day, and maybe get a start on a pot of coffee that he can pour down his throat before even thinking about anything else.

There’s cool water dripping down the back of his neck and hot water dripping over coffee grounds when Minseok finally turns to the pile sitting on the countertop. It gets shuffled around pretty regularly, honestly, because it’s usually either in Kyungsoo’s way while he’s trying to cook or in everyone else’s way while they’re trying to eat. Logic would dictate that they all just throw the mess away, but it’s a mess of mail, and right now, that occasional contact with home is one of the few things keeping most of their heads together.

Humming to himself, Minseok begins flipping through the stack, breaking it out into piles for each person. If he can’t get rid of the mess, he can at least reduce it, somewhat, or make it easier for others to get rid of it, right? 

“Morning, MinMin,” Luhan breathes against the back of his neck, and, _oh_. Minseok wobbles, his knees suddenly about half water, and it takes him a moment to turn, framed as he his by those surprisingly strong arms.

“Did you sleep well?” Luhan asks. He doesn’t really wait for an answer, just leans forward and catches Minseok’s lips in a slow kiss. It’s warm and sweet and gentle, more about saying _hello_ and _good morning_ than anything else, but it’s also a tender reminder that he belongs to this man, to this wonderful, wonderful man.

Minseok hopes his quiet groan is answer enough.

Luhan takes his sweet time breaking the kiss, letting it linger and dwindle until they’re breathing each other’s air, faces pressed close, eyes closed. Then he pulls away, reaches behind Minseok. “Sorting the mail?” he asks.

Minseok nods against his shoulder, still drowsy and drifty from the feel of his lips. “You’ve got a stack here,” he murmurs, gesturing towards where he tucked the letters for Luhan. “One came yesterday, I think. Top of the stack.”

Luhan hums his understanding, lifting the small pile, but not stepping away from Minseok. He keeps him caged like this, crowded against the countertop, even as he flips through the mail. “Looks like that’s the only one that’s not junk mail, actually,” he snorts, hanging on to a pale blue envelope even as he bins the rest of the stack into the recycling. He leans forward, propping his head on Minseok’s shoulder, tearing into the envelope behind the other man’s back.

Minseok relaxes, feeling the flex and tug of Luhan’s arms as he opens the letter, reads it, turns it over. He is not needed right now, except as a chin rest and a warm body, and he likes that. It’s nice, this sort of time, where he is simply something of Luhan’s, and Luhan is his only concern.

“Well, that’s interesting.”

Minseok makes a questioning noise. It’s distant.

Luhan smiles against his neck, craning his own to press a soft, open mouthed kiss against the place where Minseok’s pulse beats just under his skin. “Come on, sleepy-love,” he teases, hooking a hand into the pocket of the other man’s pants and tugging him away from the kitchen, out into the living area they’ve cleared for the group. “Kyungsoo’s going to want to start breakfast soon enough, and we’d best be out of his way before then. And besides, reading this will help you learn Mandarin.”

That’s how they end up on the couch where so recently Minseok tried and failed to sleep, tucked together, Luhan helping Minseok stumble slowly through the letter he’d received from a friend back home.

\---

No one’s sure who’s more surprised that Lee SooMan and the rest of the executives agree that yes, the soon-to-be-debuted Exo may attend the “Domenstration” event that Luhan’s childhood friend is serving as a demonstrator at. It’s in a club, but early in the evening, and because it’s intended as part competition (it’s Women With Whips, after all) and part education, it’s open to anyone fifteen or older. And, in theory, safe to send the whole group to.

Minseok watches, amused, from atop the bed as Luhan frets his way through their wardrobe. He’s dressed simply enough, in jeans and an over-large sweater that feels like it might have been knitted from clouds. Beneath that, he’s wearing his most recent stripes and bruises, and the elegant knots of his favourite rope-harness pattern, but there’s nothing particularly special about any of it. Luhan, on the other hand, has been dithering between dressing the part he’s been playing in public (sweet, innocent, delicate as a dandelion) and the part he plays at home (something far stronger and darker) and even, a little, dressing up to the nines.

“Wear your new boots,” Minseok suggests, leaning forward with his elbows digging in to his knees. “The ones you just got.”

The ones he had just bought for Luhan, actually. They’re soft and suede, flat-bottomed and plain, but something about them stirs a fire in Minseok’s belly anyway. Maybe it’s the way they cling to Luhan’s strong calves, or the way they seem to dress up any outfit Luhan wears. Maybe it’s just knowing how soft the fabric is, rubbing between his naked thighs.

Luhan gives him a knowing look, but reaches for the boots anyway. That seems to make the rest of the decisions easier, as he grabs a pair of black jeans that hug his ass in the most delicious way next, and after that, settles on a button-down shirt, one that’s a deep, wine red.

“I like that shirt,” Minseok says stupidly, watching Luhan’s fingers race through the buttons (he’s been forbidden to touch, for the moment.) “That color looks good on you.”

Luhan’s face folds up in a smile. “Not nearly as good as it looks on you,” he says, leaning forward so that he can brush his lips against Minseok’s--and tug at the other man’s rope harness.

Minseok looks down. Oh. 

So that’s why that color looks so familiar.

\---

“Oh fearless leader,” Jongdae murmurs, leaning in towards where Junmyeon is sitting at the front of the van, reading through something on his tablet.

“What,” Junmyeon answers, not actually paying a lick of attention to the other man.

“So. Domenstration, technically,” Jongdae says. “Informally, something of a show, seeing as it’s Women With Whips, and apparently one of them actually went to school with Luhan, which is saying something about the dynamics there.”

“Yes?”

“You do have someone in mind, in case you need to, uh, push off over-eager ones?”

That gives Junmyeon a moment of pause, as he thinks through Jongdae’s line of reasoning. Even though they are going to an open-to-the-public, educational (somewhat) event, it is likely to be dom-heavy, and with a group of doubtless attractive dommes showing off their whipping skills, possibly even on equally attractive subs… Well. Junmyeon has never denied that he is a switch, and that means that some part of him will almost always read as submissive to people watching.

And, in a situation like this, it could go one of two ways. Either Junmyeon has to deal with dominant people coming on to him, and doubtless some of them struggling to understand “no” to also mean “no, really, leave,” or he will find himself falling in a room full of dominants.

“Shit,” he groans. Neither of those situations sounds like fun, honestly, and they’re both something he has more experience with than he wishes. At least this time, he also has an ace in the hole--or, in this case, an “Ace” in the van. One of the only two doms Junmyeon’s ever met who wouldn’t think twice about taking on his co-leader is also in the van, but will be wrapped up in his own sub all night. Dropping his tablet and leaning back in the seat, he calls, “Yifan?”

“Yeah?” the other man calls back from where he’s seated, talking in low Cantonese with Zitao. His eyes, rimmed in smudged kohl, meet Junmyeon’s in the van’s rearview mirror.

“Congrats. You’re my dom, at least for tonight. If I need it.”

God, but he hopes he doesn’t need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless world building notes? Useless world building notes!
> 
> I (like to) imagine that, in a society that considers powerplay normative in sexual and romantic relationships, education is a Thing. An Important Thing. In this case, I am considering a society one that includes accessible education opportunities about dynamics, and techniques, and safety and caution and how to take care of yourself and others. And so you get "domenstrations," or displays of dominance techniques that are part entertainment, part education. And, because young adults will have sex, these edutainments are designed to be teen-and-up-friendly. Because no society, no matter how sex positive, wants teens running around learning how to use whips properly on EACH OTHER.
> 
> Further side note: education is your friend. Especially as it concerns kinky sex. And sex in general.


	9. Chapter Nine

It’s packed when they get there, the club full of younger dominants than it usually plays host to, most likely. There are also some older people in the mix, though, so it’s clearly not just targeted at the younger dynamic demographic. Quite a few of the attendees are dominant, and no few of them seem to be trying to advertise it. But there are also a good number of submissive people of all ages, collared and uncollared and cuffed and utterly unmarked alike. It’s an odd conglomeration, really, this mix of highly dynamic and high performance and clearly still-trying-to-find-their-feet people.

Luhan has a quick word with one of the bouncers, who leads them all to a large booth along the wall of the large room. It’s raised up from the main floor, on a second level that they have to climb stairs to reach. The bench itself is also high, as is the table, but the kneeling cushions that the bouncer indicates explain that one.

“Knees, Tao,” Yifan murmurs, leaning in to whisper in the boy’s ear. “There’s some Imperial dommes around, for the performance.” He strokes long fingers along the narrow stretch of Zitao’s neck, teasing the baby-fine hairs curling there.

Zitao shivers a little, but sinks easily to his knees as the sensation ripples through him. He waits as most of the group gets settled, just leaning into Yifan’s gentle, stroking fingers. He’s always been weak for hands on his neck, his throat, for the feeling of ownership and control. And Yifan’s steady, rhythmic stroke is the sort of contact he dreams about. As soft as the touch is, there is an edge to it, a firmness that feels like control and comfort all in one, a reminder that Yifan is there, that he has Zitao’s body in hand. Zitao lets himself settle into the steady touch, lets it comfort and anchor him, and then looks questioningly up at Yifan.

Yifan smiles down at him, his fingers running up the back of Zitao’s neck to the shell of his ear, a long finger tracing the hidden space between his ear and his skull. As Zitao inhales slowly and lets himself lean into the warm, strong presence of Yifan’s thigh, the other man turns back to the conversation he was having, requesting drinks. His fingers keep playing with Zitao’s earrings, though, toying with the blunted ends of his many piercings, bump-bump-bump over the two helices at the top of his ear, then the one half-way down. Sometimes his finger runs back up, bump-bump-bump, and then curls around the inner curve of his ear, tender and soft against the tragus (not pierced, not yet, not until he’s wearing a collar and his dom agrees), then tickles, ever so gentle, against the conch piercing punching through the center of the shell of his ear. Other times, though, his finger keeps moving along its path, so that Yifan can tease at the dangling jewelry hanging through the lobe of Zitao’s ear.

The steady rhythm, the touch, the feel of his face pressed against Yifan’s knee while the other man continues his conversation over his head--some part of it, maybe all of it, tells Zitao to relax. His breathing deepens and evens, and his eyes drift half-shut, so he’s just barely watching Sehun settle, cross-legged, on the kneeling cushion nearest his own. He smiles softly at his friend, earning himself an amused eyeroll. Sehun snorts, but Yifan’s hand slips down Zitao’s face and cradles his jaw in one wide palm.

He must make some kind of sound, because suddenly Yifan is looking under the table at him, and his eyes are wide, his cheeks pale.

“Yixing?” Yifan asks, sounding strangled. “Can you…?”

“Got him,” Yixing confirms, smiling a little, though whether it’s at the hard-hitting dom’s discomfort or Zitao’s characteristic sweetness is anyone’s guess. He scoots a little closer, then taps his knee. “Come on, TaoTao. Rest with me. Don’t let anyone mess with you.”

Reluctantly, Zitao lifts his head from Yifan’s knee. The other man moves almost as soon as he does, and so Zitao hums quietly, tilting the other way and leaning his head against Yixing’s knee. He wishes it was Yifan’s knee, just a little. He can feel the ghost-like hum of sensation, Yifan’s fingers teasing down his face even though his hands are now in his own lap. Where Zitao would like to be. Still, he distracts himself from that thought--and maybe releases a little frustration--by glaring balefully at the dom who just swerved a little too near. He knows that when he is commanded to not let anyone mess with him, Yixing really means to let him know if they need to remove limbs from some impertinent asshole, but Zitao takes pride in what his _jiejie_ taught him, and he is good at scaring off those he doesn’t deem worthy.

Luhan and Minseok are the only ones who don’t get settled, staying standing at the edge of the rise. “I’m going to head to the back,” Luhan says, his hand firm on the back of Minseok’s neck, “say hi to Meilin.”

“Show off Minseok-hyung, he means,” Sehun mutters to Zitao, leaning across Yixing’s lap to do it. When the older dom raises an eyebrow, he treats him to a charming smile.

Zitao, on the other hand, just gently shoves Sehun. He doesn’t bother lifting his head from Yixing’s knee, even as he mutters back, “pretty sure he doesn’t call him hyung, Hun-ah. That’d be weird.”

“That would be kinky,” Yixing corrects calmly, one hand petting idly through Zitao’s hair even as he flicks the top of Sehun’s ear. “Which would not be out of character for either of them. And the pair of you are gossiping girls.”

Sehun just grins, even as he sits up. He snuggles close to Yixing’s shoulder, and pretends not to feel his belly warm when the older man just sighs and folds him in, too.

\---

Luhan smiles brightly at one of the women in the tight-packed ready room. His hand drops away from Minseok’s waist as he waves at her. Normally, it wouldn’t bother Minseok, but this room is small, close-pressed with powerful, competitive dommes all putting on their game faces and preparing to put on one hell of a dynamic show. Here, in this space, he feels his heart race, the loss of that small bit of contact strangely unmooring in this ocean of people. Nervous, he tries his best to stick close to Luhan as they thread their way through the crowd.

Luhan’s friend is simply and powerfully dressed, wearing a green sleeveless blouse and black, well-tailored slacks. She wouldn’t look out of place in an office, if that office had loose dress codes and also required dommes to carry whips, Minseok thinks. Her hair is gorgeous--long, loose curls tumbling around her bare shoulders, tied back in a hairclip his sister might actually have shanked a bitch for, given the chance. He can see why Luhan loves her, in his own way.

“Xiao Lu!” she cries, opening her arms in greeting. She doesn’t try to hug Luhan, but does lean in to brush her cheek against his.

“MeiMei,” Luhan returns, uncaring about the streak of glitter she’s left in her wake. “It was kind of you to invite this motley lot.”

She laughs, dimpling at him. It’s a surprisingly rich sound from someone as small as she is. “Yeah, well, I also have a favor to ask of you, so this is all for my benefit, love.” Looking over Luhan’s shoulder, she winks at Minseok. “You’d never guess what a toppy son of a bitch he is, would you? Given how naive he acts?”

Minseok feels a grin curling the corners of his lips. He can definitely see why Luhan loves her. “He does have his moments,” he agrees.

“Rude,” Luhan accuses both of them, shaking his head a little. “Just because some of us don’t need all the leather and chains to be good at what we do… Or so _someone_ once taught me…”

“And he calls _me_ rude,” Meilin says to Minseok. “Sitting here, slandering me, when he hasn’t even introduced us. Hua Meilin. You?”

“This is Kim Minseok,” Luhan introduces. “Min, Mei and I grew up together, and we were in the same Advanced Dynamics training classes. She’s the one that really beat how to wield a whip into my head, actually.”

“Mostly by literally beating it into his ass,” Meilin says, laughing again. “It’s amazing how much actually stuck in his head because it’d just been tanned cherry-red across his butt.”

Startled by the mental image--and how much he _wants_ \--Minseok sucks in a quick breath, his eyes blown wide.

It’s enough to get Meilin’s attention, apparently, because her grin takes on a sharper edge, her eyes glittering with something predatory and hot. “Pretty thought, isn’t it? A dom like _him_ , spread out across a bench in front of you? Lovely pert ass of his, turned up and just waiting for the kiss of your whip to turn it red?”

“Meilin!” Luhan hisses, his voice hazy and far away.

The woman turns her gaze from Minseok, back to her friend, and suddenly, he can breathe again. The conversation continues beside him, but he finds himself wondering if this is how rabbits feel, right before the snake strikes. If this is how others feel, when Luhan turns his fire and fury in their direction. He’s always been warmth and want for Minseok, but for the others…

“I’m sorry, Mei,” Luhan is saying when Minseok tunes back in. “I can’t.”

“You don’t have to do anything sexual with her,” Meilin says. “In fact, I’d prefer if you didn’t. She’s a bit like you, gay as the day is long, but I don’t want her in this crowd without some dominant eye on her, and our usual chaperone got food poisoning…”

“I can’t,” Luhan repeats. “It’s…” He sighs. “Minseok. Wrists.”

Unthinking, Minseok thrusts his arms out towards Luhan, inner wrists pressed close to one another. Only the utter lack of space keeps him from falling to his knees.

“Oh!” Meilin breathes, even as Luhan loops an arm around Minseok’s waist, pulling him close. While one hand stays low on his hips, the other shoves up the loose sleeves of Minseok’s sweater, revealing his most recent marks.

“I can’t,” Luhan says again, running a thumb over the inky black bands of the bruises that are the closest thing to a collar he and Minseok are currently allowed. “I’m already taken.”

Not raising his eyes from the toes of Luhan’s pretty suede boots, Minseok murmurs, “thank you for teaching him how to whip. It’s a lovely feature.”

“Feature, he calls it,” Luhan snorts. “I’m sorry, Mei. One of the other doms in my group could…?” He slides a hand under Minseok’s sweater.

“Kyungsoo,” Minseok says suddenly, like Luhan’s thumb against the stripes on his back has jolted the idea loose. Maybe it has. He looks up, meets Luhan’s eyes for a moment, looks across to the woman. “Our friend, Kyungsoo. He’s dominant, but. But he doesn’t go for sex.”

“Would you trust him?” Meilin asks.

It’s hard to tell if she’s asking her dominant friend or the submissive curling against him, but Minseok likes to imagine that Luhan would only be this close a friend with someone who’s not a completely crap human, and so he answers. “With myself, definitely. With someone I was looking out for, totally.”

Meilin hmms, tapping one long, painted nail against her teeth as she thinks. After a long, long pause, she puts her hands back on her hips and nods abruptly. “Alright. Kyungsoo, you said his name was?”

“Do Kyungsoo,” Luhan confirms. “He’ll be sitting at the table you set aside for us.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him.

“If at all possible,” Luhan murmurs, so quietly that Minseok has to strain to hear, “I’d like to borrow your dressing room? To get Minseok a little more...settled.”

Meilin’s eyes dart over Minseok, tracing him from head to toe, and then her entire face softens. “Of course,” she says to Luhan, a quick bob of her head marking her assent. “Take good care of him, yeah? I can’t wait to get to know him.” She claps a hand on Luhan’s shoulder, then strides forward, as if the crowd in the room is beneath her notice. Maybe it is; the close-pressed people part before her like waves before a boat.

“Meilin,” Luhan tells Minseok, even as he slides an arm around his hips, a hand settling against the arch of bone, “has always been a force of nature.”

“Makes sense you’re friends, then,” Minseok murmurs back, a grin curling around his lips, even as he leans back into Luhan’s warm weight. “Though I kind of wish I could have seen you as baby doms. Sounds like it would have been quite the time.”

“Oh, it was,” Luhan says, pressing forward to whisper hotly in Minseok’s ear, even as he pulls the door to the tiny dressing room closed behind them. “You should have seen us, Seok-ah. MeiMei has always been good with a whip, and you know me.” He pushes, gently.

Shivering, Minseok falls to his knees, lips parted and cheeks flushed. “Yeah?” he breathes.

“Oh, yeah,” Luhan confirms. He’s wearing a wildcat grin, and he strokes the side of Minseok’s face for a second before reaching up and brushing his bangs out of his face. “Want me to tell you about it?”

“Please,” Minseok pants, reaching up for the fly of Luhan’s pants. “Please, sir--”

“I’ve got you,” Luhan says, quiet and calm. He keeps his hand in Minseok’s hair, combing his fingers back to cup the back of his skull. “Need to be quick, though, love. Can’t miss the show, can we?”

“No,” Minseok agrees on a mumble, fingers fumbling with Luhan’s buttons. When he reaches in, though, his hand is deft and clever, sure with the hot weight of his dom’s cock in his grip.

Luhan sighs, letting the wall behind him take some of his weight as he spreads his legs, just a little, the better to balance for Minseok. “That’s it,” he says. “So. Meilin and I. We met in--ah--in class. When we were learning to bind people. Good as she is with a whip--and she is good, no mistake--Meilin hates ropes. Hates them.”

Pulling off with a long, slow drag--better to prevent the risk of getting drool on Sir’s slacks--Minseok looks up at him. “I like your ropes,” he says, his lips feeling fat and heavy.

“I’ve noticed,” Luhan assures him, releasing his hair so that he can drag a thumb across Minseok’s lips. When Minseok’s tongue sneaks out to lap at his thumb, he snags the bright pink tip in a quick pinch, relishing the pained groan that wins him. He smirks and smears the tiniest hint of saliva damping his fingertips against Minseok’s jaw, then draws the man back in.

The tip of his tongue now pulsing in time with his heart (and, if he’s honest, his dick,) Minseok sinks back down on Sir’s cock. He takes it all in one smooth motion, until his lips are pressed tight to warm skin, rough, curly hair is tickling his nose, and the head of Luhan’s cock is pressing heavy against the back of his throat.

“That’s it, baby,” Luhan says, blowing out a breath. “Just like that. Mei… Mei doesn’t suffer as beautifully as you do, baby. She doesn’t suffer at all, actually. But she really hates being shown up.” He snorts a rough laugh, hips jerking slightly in time with Minseok’s actions. “So she challenged me with whips. And you know how that ended.” He grins, sharp and red-cheeked.

Minseok makes a questioning noise, deep in the back of his throat, that’s also part whine. He was promised a story, after all.

Groaning, Luhan tightens his fingers on Minseok’s jaw. He squeezes his eyes shut and just breathes for a moment, before starting to speak again. “She wasn’t lying when she said she turned my ass red. She was good at it, Min. Really good. She likes to work you up slowly, you know? Warm you up good and proper. Sometimes she’d start with her hand, said it gave her something to aim at. Get a nice, red spot on each cheek. Then she’d bring out the whips. Do a little--nn--target practise. She like to see just how tight she could get her marks without--without breaking skin. Not--ohh--not going to lie, Min. The single tongue--” He shudders.

Minseok can imagine it, the heavy sting of a warm hand followed by the sharp bite of the whip, wielded by a skilled hand. Hell, he’s felt it; Sir is good to him, and he whips like he was born to it. And the thought of it being Sir, of him being the one sprawled forward and moaning, his ass warming and darkening…

Opening his eyes with a muffled, desperate sob, Minseok swallows Sir’s dick, again and again, hungry and wanting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ORZ. I HAVE NO EXCUSES.
> 
> well. I have lots of excuses, but honestly, they're just excuses, not reasons. I am sorry. orz


	10. Chapter Ten

“What did you even do to him?” Yixing mutters, watching the loose way Minseok slides onto the cushion at Luhan’s feet, unquestioningly curling up between his dom’s thigh and the young woman that had been escorted out to sit with Kyungsoo. “He looks like he came in his jeans!”

Luhan smirks, says nothing, just wipes his thumb across his lips as if making sure he’s gotten it all.

“Oh my god,” Yixing groans, burying his face in his hands, even as Yifan chokes on his drink. “Way more than I needed to know, Luhan.”

“Are we discussing how post-coital Luhan looks?” Kyungsoo asks, having been watching the fast Mandarin exchange. “Because I recognise that face, and it’s a good fifty percent of the reason I’m glad we have different apartments.”

Before anyone can answer, however, the lights drop. There is a dramatic swell of music, and then, at the crescendo, silence.

A single spotlight lights the center of the stage, and the long-legged woman standing there, a coiled whip in her hands. Her eyes downcast, she bows to the audience, whip still carefully held.

“Welcome,” she says, “to the Women With Whips Learning Event. I am Gyuri.” She bows again, and this time, sinks all the way to her knees. The whip stays up, at what is now her eye-level, though she has cast her eyes down below it.

“And I am Meilin,” another voice murmurs, and Meilin steps out of the darkness to stand at the edge of the pool of light around the kneeling woman. “Let’s start with the importance of a well-kept whip.”

 

\---

 

Baekhyun’s thigh is tense, rock-hard under Chanyeol’s palm. He's staring forward, unmoving, unblinking, his lips parted and his breath coming fast. Meilin hasn't gone anywhere near the submissive woman, Gyuri, with the whip yet, but Baekhyun’s eyes are fixed on the leather braid. They have been, Chanyeol realises, since the dominant woman first snapped the tool out of its coil with a sharp crack.

The whip, or maybe the hand that wields it, Chanyeol thinks, his eyes on Baekhyun. Because while Minseok is flushed and bright-eyed where he’s pressed up against Luhan’s thigh, and Sehun’s breath hitches each time the domme cracks the whip, describing her technique, Baekhyun hasn't ever been one for that kind of pain. Not while Chanyeol has known him. The pressure and ache of fingers digging deep into soft skin, sure. The burn of teeth over bone, yes. The sting of leftover bruises being refreshed, god, yes. But whips? Crops? Baekhyun’s never asked for anything like that, not given any sign he's interested in feeling it.

Chanyeol doesn’t think he could hit Baekhyun, anyway. He’s not like Luhan and Yifan, knows he isn’t, has seen the naked hunger in their eyes, the way their breath quickens and their lips part when that violence suggests itself in the context of a beautiful person. He’s not like Kyungsoo, even, who doesn’t get off on the fight but who thrives in it and comes out of it glowing and bright.

On the stage, the submissive woman is rising to her feet, turning her back to the audience. Her shirt, Chanyeol sees, is really two shirts--one that wraps around over the other, like a sweater, almost, and a halter top. Gyuri is explaining that these kinds of shirts are excellent investments for submissives who enjoy impact play on the back -- done safely, of course -- because they are designed to prevent pressure and rubbing on painful, fragile skin. She folds the wrap-around shirt, then laces her fingers together behind her head, just under her bun, her thumbs resting on either side of her head. They frame her long neck beautifully, Chanyeol notices.

She stands stock-still as Meilin explains how to map out a strike zone, her hands running smooth and steady down the other woman’s bare back. Below the table, Chanyeol’s fingers trace similar lines across Baekhyun’s thigh, absent-minded but steady. He’s not sure he can do this for Baekhyun, not sure he can be that person. It’s not who he is, after all, and it’s not who he has any interest in being. After all, he’s not Luhan, not Yifan--not even Junmyeon, with his steady moments of taking control.

And maybe it’s that he’s thinking mostly of doms, when he is a sub, even if more than one person has called him the pushiest, most dominant submissive to ever exist. But he’s always been pushy because he knows what his dominants need, and Chanyeol is, at his very core, the worst kind of service submissive. He likes having kinky one-offs, where neither person admits to their dynamic, because it gives him the freedom to take care of his partner, without any of that unpleasant bossiness intruding. It’s what drew him so strongly to Baekhyun, after all--Baekhyun wants, _needs_  the kind of pushiness Chanyeol brings.

And the thing is, Baekhyun _needs_  so beautifully. Even now, seated comfortably on the plush bench, crammed in between Kyungsoo and Chanyeol, he lists a little, leaning heavily on Chanyeol’s arm, eyes still fixed on the stage. And Chanyeol knows what that means, knows that Baekhyun needs to know that he is there, with him. But he’s not going to tell him how to do that, how to show that he cares, because that’s not what their relationship is, or ever has been.

He’s known Baekhyun for less than a year, all told, but it sometimes feels like Chanyeol knows parts of him that he’s never shown to anyone else. They both have safewords, of course--they’re not stupid, and have both sat through enough safe sex lectures in school--but they have never needed them. Baekhyun trusts Chanyeol to draw the lines, and he follows them comfortably. Theirs isn’t a power exchange in the traditional sense, and maybe that’s why it’s lasted so much longer, and been so much better, than any of Chanyeol’s other relationships. Baekhyun gives Chanyeol a set of parameters, and lets him figure out the what and how.

Baekhyun makes a pained little sound, his teeth sinking into his lower lip even as he curls his fingers like claws against his own thigh. Though his nostrils are flaring, he doesn’t look away from where Gyuri, bathed in the warm lights of the stage, is all but luxuriating in the sensation of the tongue of the whip flickering down her back in swift, popping motions. His eyes are wide, staring.

Chanyeol doesn’t think, tears himself out of his own mind. Baekhyun needs him, needs him here and now, present. His hand slides up Baekhyun’s thigh to his hip, and then around his back. Unthinking, he pulls the other man against him, his hand curling around the slim arch of his hip.

And Baekhyun… Baekhyun _melts_  into him, the tension that’s been holding him rigidly still flowing away. He sighs out, a sweet little sound, and blinks, for what Chanyeol thinks must be the first time since the demonstration portion started. His shoulders ease, and his arms go loose. He releases the leg of his pants as he settles his head against the wide span of Chanyeol’s collar, his hand sliding back towards his own hip so he can tangle his fingers with Chanyeol’s.

Startled, Chanyeol freezes for a moment, blinking down at the young man curled against his chest. After a second, though, he consciously relaxes. After all, Baekhyun needs him.

 

\---

 

“Come on, Zitao,” Junmyeon murmurs, reaching out for his maknae line’s sweetheart. He can’t help but smile, even though he knows that the loose, pliant way Zitao moves from the raised floor of where they’ve been sitting to on the floor, in his arms, is not a great sign. Yixing had drawn his attention to how spacey Zitao was getting throughout the demonstration, and Junmyeon knows he was right to. As much as he hates the idea of having to pull anyone out of their headspace when they are clearly content, Yixing’s right. It’s not fair to Zitao to let him drift like this, and not fair to force one of the others to keep an eye on him to keep him safe.

Easier, by far, for Junmyeon to tuck the long, lanky teen into his arms, hold him tight against his body, and walk him into the bathroom to talk him back up. Especially given that Minseok is trailing with them, and he and Zitao have a surprisingly healthy relationship for two such low-scaling subs.

“Hyung,” Junmyeon murmurs, holding the door for Minseok to join them in the bathroom. It’s actually fairly clean, and not in the “for a club” sort of way. Junmyeon’s grateful for that; he’s never been a fan of public restrooms, and especially not restrooms that saw far, far more than they should.

Minseok nods in thanks. Reaching up, he playfully pats at Zitao’s flushed cheek. “Hey, xiao Tao. You’re gonna be good for Junmyeonnie-gege, right?”

Junmyeon slants a look at him. “Hyung?”

“I really do just need the toilet,” Minseok tells him, grinning. “But have to maintain that whole “girls and subs go in groups” thing, right?” Still grinning, he saunters past both of his friends, heading towards the line of urinals on the far wall.

A sad little sound, like the cross between a squeak and a sigh, escapes Zitao as he watches his friend walk past him.

“None of that, now,” Junmyeon says, pulling Zitao’s attention back to himself. He tries not to stare at where Minseok is now working himself loose from a web of ropes beneath his clothes, instead focusing his attention on Zitao’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes. He wants to coo, to praise Zitao, because the boy _is_  beautiful, is charming and sweet and so submissive, but he’s not in here as a dom, let alone as Zitao’s dom. In this poorly-lit bathroom, Junmyeon is a switch, using his submissive tendencies to help rebalance his submissive junior.

Taking a deep breath, he takes Zitao’s hand in his own, not tangling their fingers together but not taking him by the wrist, either. Instead, he grabs his hand as he might a child’s, and pulls the tall young man to the row of sinks. “You’re looking a little flushed, there,” he says, turning the faucet and sticking a hand in the flow of water. Finding it cool and rapidly cooling, he starts reaching for the paper towels. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“Yeah,” Zitao answers, his eyes slipping to half shut. “They’re very talented.”

“They are,” Junmyeon agrees, grinning at him. He wrings a bit more water out of the paper towel, then focuses on folding it neatly. “I liked watching the blonde woman the most, though. With the colorful whip?” He starts to dab the chilly paper along the other man’s throat, stepping out of the way of the sink so that Minseok can wash his hands on his way out of the bathroom.

“The martinet,” Zitao corrects, his eyes starting to focus a little more clearly. He stays loose, letting his head loll on his neck, but moves with Junmyeon’s motions, letting him cool him down and bring him back to earth. “That’s what she had. Too many tails to be a whip.”

Junmyeon just shakes his head, a little rueful. “That’s right, that’s what she called it. Still. It was pretty, and looked more nippy than biting, you know?”

Zitao smiles at him. “Yeah. They can be wicked, but she was really, really good. Did you hear the snaps it made in the air?”

Almost against his will, Junmyeon shivers. “Yeah,” he murmurs, thinking what that would feel like on his own skin. He shivers again, harder. “Yeah,” he says, a little more loudly. “Her sub--she looked like she was enjoying it.”

“Didn’t she, though?” Zitao asks. He takes the cool paper towel from Junmyeon, presses it to the back of his neck. “I started getting a little jealous of her, _gege_ , if I’m honest!”

Junmyeon laughs. It’s been a while since he’s been able to participate in this kind of sub-talk, and he’s almost glad to have gotten the chance to this evening. He should spend more time with the more submissive members of EXO, he thinks, away from the power-plays and the rigid organisation of the managers. Maybe spend a little more time with his hyungs, too; it would be nice to take a breather, and they wouldn’t go talking out of turn.

“I’m glad we came tonight,” Zitao says suddenly, throwing away the paper towel and straightening up. He tugs on the hem of his shirt, straightening it out a little, every movement showing him to be a little steadier. He’s rising rapidly, his mind clearing with conversation and the cool water on his skin.

Junmyeon smiles up at him. “I am, too.”

 

\---

 

“Didn’t need me, after all,” Yifan mutters, leaning down so that he can speak right into Junmyeon’s ear. “Kinda pleased, to be honest.”

Junmyeon snorts. “You’re pleased? How do you think I feel?”

“Grateful that the world as a whole isn’t a disaster?” Yifan teases quietly, though there’s a hint of question in his eyes.

Taking pity on him--it’s kind of clear that Yifan _knows_  that the world treats him one way because he is a dom, and an obvious dom, at that, and that he also knows that the subs in his life are not afforded the same courtesies--Junmyeon quirks something that could be called a smile at him. “Sometimes, I am pleasantly surprised,” he agrees. He pauses for a moment, and then adds, “thank you, by the way.”

Yifan pulls back, blinking. “For what?”

“For being willing to step in if I needed it,” Junmyeon tells him. “And only if I needed it.” His eyes drift to something just over Yifan’s shoulder. “Though, uh…”

“Yeah?” Yifan asks.

Junmyeon smiles at him. “Zitao’s still a little loose from the demonstration. Can you make sure he’s alright? That he doesn’t let it hit him too hard?”

“I...yeah,” Yifan says, flushing. “Yeah, I can…” He turns, following Junmyeon’s gaze until he sees his maknae. His ears go a little redder. “I...uh.” He looks back at Junmyeon, not really seeing him. “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course,” Junmyeon says, a smirk curling the corners of his lips. “Have a good night, Yifan.”

He doesn’t even mind that he gets a half-hearted ‘uh-huh’ in response.

 

\---

 

“Think I fucked up the knot,” Minseok says, flopping loose-limbed onto the coverlet of his and Luhan’s bed after depositing the tupperware with the warm washcloth they’d liberated from the kitchen on a bedside table. “When I tried to get everything back together after the bathroom.”

Luhan, who had been casually shedding his button-up, is suddenly standing over him, his face firm. “Pants off, Min. _Now_.” His voice is sharp, the whip-crack tension in it clear as day.

Startled, Minseok blinks, but obeys. He reaches down, undoes the button of his jeans, and then quickly gets his hands out of the way as Luhan starts tugging his pants down. He jumps a little at the sensation of Luhan’s ice-cold fingertips skimming down his cock, stroking swiftly over his balls--he’s not expecting the touch or the chill, and Luhan had not told him to stay still.

“Okay,” Luhan sighs, his hand now resting on Minseok’s hip. He sags down into a squat, right in front of the other man. His shirt hangs open, tails barely brushing the floor. “Do me a solid, Minseok?”

“Yeah?” Minseok asks, dazed and confused.

Luhan looks up at him, fixing him with a steel-eyed look. “If you think you’ve fucked up a knot, let me know. _Immediately_. If you can’t figure it out, just _ask_  me. I thought I’d accidentally castrated you!” His head falls forward, forehead landing hard against Minseok’s knee.

And, oh. It starts to make sense to Minseok. Luhan had heard “fucked up knot” and “bathroom” and immediately leapt to a bad knot cutting off blood flow or something, because he had listened when Minseok asked to follow Junmyeon and Zitao by himself, because he hadn’t insisted on going with him to untie and retie the harness for him.

“Oh, no, sir, nothing like that,” Minseok assures him quickly, the words falling over each other in their rush to be heard. “No, no, I promise, I would have said something. I just. It doesn’t look as nice?” Weakly, he gestures to where his cock lies between them, the careful weave of ropes a little out of place, a little less neat than it had been.

“Scared the shit out of me,” Luhan mutters to his leg, before taking a deep breath and then straightening up a little. “Right. I have no desire to fight the others for a shower right now, but I also know that you, MinMin, are a far tidier cocksucker than I will ever be. I’m fairly certain that you, at least, want to be clean?” He raises an eyebrow, curious, even as his hand traces down from where it had landed on Minseok’s hip to settle more comfortably at the top of his thigh. With his other, he gathers up the washcloth from the bedside table.

Even just thinking of the heat of Sir’s mouth around him, in that tiny, humid room in the back of the club, of the way he had taken Minseok’s aching cock into his mouth and let him--no, not _let_  him, _encouraged_  him--to come has Minseok’s cock twitching between them, jerking against the ropes that are anchoring him in place. He whines and falls back flat on the bed, reaching up to hide his suddenly-pink face.

Luhan laughs, the sound rich and warm and surprisingly dark. He rolls forward, so that he is kneeling, not squatting, his slender body caught between Minseok’s thighs, his chest leaning against the jeans still stuck around his knees. “Mm, I’d say I need to add sucking you off to our list,” he murmurs, his grin audible. His one hand makes quick work of the escape knot, and then he is washing Minseok, careful of the washcloth’s rough nap.  “It would be fun, I think. Tie you against the headboard, work on my technique a bit--what do you think? You could give me some pointers.”

“P-pointers, sir?” Minseok fairly squeaks, kind of a little afraid to look down and see what he is sure must be a truly wicked grin on Sir’s face. He tries to ignore the way he can feel Sir’s breath rushing hot over his cock, sensitive in the wake of the washcloth’s warmth. He’s had one orgasm tonight; he’s not going to be allowed another.

“Mm-hmm,” Luhan purrs. “Don’t think I don’t notice how very, very good you are at sucking my cock, Minseok. The way you swallow me down--” A shiver trembles down his spine, rocking between them. “You’re wonderful, Min. So sweet, and so kind, so lovely. And you swallow, every time. It amazes me, you know that? That you don’t mind when I come in your mouth, that you take such care, that you clean me up so well.” He presses a soft kiss to the curve of Minseok’s hips, right between two lines of rope.

Minseok sighs a little, feeling that warm sensation curl up his spine. Behind his hands, his eyes fall shut. “I...I don’t mind, sir,” he confesses, the words muffled by his palms.

Luhan makes an inquisitive sound, leaning in to bite kisses up and around the gaps in Minseok’s hip harness. “Min?”

“I like it, sir, I mean,” Minseok mumbles.

The bed protests the sudden motion, but Minseok, frankly, enjoys the way he is suddenly blanketed in Luhan’s warm weight, the way he has surged up so that their legs are tangled together, hips close-pressed, and is kissing him. His hands are pinned down on either side of his head, Sir’s hands at his wrists, semi-supporting his weight. It will leave bruises, but Minseok can’t bring himself to care, not when he’s got that wonderful blend of sharp teeth and soft lips on his own and the memory of his own taste in that mouth on his mind.

“You,” Luhan pants, breaking away to suck in air, “are a goddamn blessing.”

Underneath him, Minseok whines, straining upwards. “Please,” he breathes. “Please, sir…!”

With a low growl, Luhan bites his way back into Minseok’s mouth, one hand releasing the other man’s wrist to snake down between them. When he takes hold of Minseok’s cock, he does so punishingly tight, his fingers an iron-clad ring.

Minseok cries out, unseeing eyes flying open, his entire body shaking. When he finally comes back to himself, it’s to see Sir looming over him, his eyes sharp and wicked, a shark-ish grin curling his lips.

“Now,” Luhan says, his grin stretching even wider, “I’d say it’s time for the first lesson, yeah?”

All Minseok can do is whimper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to end on fluff. Oops?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks are due to the unnies, who know who they are. We realised tonight that I have been working on this mother for over a year, now, and they have been there every step of the way, cajoling and betaing and prodding and poking and cheering. Love to my ladies!


End file.
